Reunion
by loobeyloo
Summary: Stringfellow Hawke reminisces about another lost chance for love, a pattern that somehow keeps repeating its self.
1. Chapter 1

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.

**Chapter One.**

**Summer 1984.**

**Santini Air Hangar, Van Nuys Airport, California.**

"Well, are you just gonna sit there, or are you gonna make that call?" Dominic Santini let out a soft sigh of exasperation, as he regarded his young friend, Stringfellow Hawke, over his shoulder.

The younger man was sitting there, staring down at the piece of stiff paper on the desktop before him as if it were infected with an incurable plague virus.

Hawke had been quiet all day, never a good sign, to Santini's way of thinking, and it had taken almost half an hour of teasing and cajoling before the older man had managed to prise out of his young friend the reason for the fugue that hung over him.

"String?" Santini prompted when the young man did not answer, did not move, just continued to stare down at the offending piece of paper. "String?"

"Yeah, I hear you, Dom," There was an edge of irritation in his voice as Stringfellow Hawke let out a deep, shoulder raising sigh. "I'll get on to Michael right away."

"Thank you. We really need those supplies, pronto!" Santini stated the obvious.

"I don't need you to remind me that I was a little heavy handed with the weapons on that last mission," Hawke drawled now, raising his eyes from the sheet of paper to pin Santini with one of his patented frosty glowers, and Santini rolled his rheumy grey eyes heavenward in exasperation.

"Did you hear me complaining?"

"I said I'd call Michael, and I will, Dominic."

"And what about the other thing?"

"What of it?" Now his tone held a hint of warning.

"Kid, it's an invitation to your High School reunion, not your death warrant!" Santini growled in exasperation.

"I think I'd rather stand in front of a firing squad than go back to that place."

"What? You're kidding me? Right?" Dominic Santini's jaw dropped open in undisguised astonishment, and the look that Hawke threw back at him would have curdled milk.

"Didn't you tell me once that it was the best time in your life? I certainly remember what a happy kid you were back then …."

Santini's voice trailed away as he suddenly realised what he was saying, and, at the same time also realised that to the young man seated at the desk, it _**was**_ probably the last time in his young life that he had experienced anything close to happiness and pleasure.

"That was then," Hawke drawled once more, letting out another deep sigh. "I'm not that kid anymore."

"So maybe it wouldn't hurt you to remember just what he was like," Santini countered.

"He's dead, Dominic, let him be."

"Dammit, String, you know how much I hate it when you talk that way!" Santini bristled now, and raising his eyes heavenward, offered up a silent prayer, for he had always subscribed to the belief that some things should just never be said out loud, for fear of tempting Fate.

He paused briefly, watching the look of remorse that settled on the younger man's face.

"You know your trouble, kid," Santini wagged his finger at the younger man in time to the beat of each word. "Too damned busy feeling sorry for your self!" he roared. "Maybe it isn't such a bad idea for you to go to this reunion, to see all the guys and girls you went to school with, and see what life has thrown at them in the years since you all graduated. Maybe you'll find that you are not the only one to have loved someone and lost them, not the only one to have experienced grief, or war, or tragedy. It's been over sixteen years, kid, believe me, nobody is gonna give a damn if you have a bald spot and a pot belly, they'll just be pleased to see you and talk about old times over a few beers."

"I don't have anything in common with them any more, Dom, nothing to say that they would find remotely interesting."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because they're probably all married and have kids …."

It was a lame excuse and Hawke knew it, but he simply could not tell Santini his real reasons for wanting to avoid the people, and the memories of his youth.

"You know I'm not the kind of guy who can make the right kind of noises over a bunch of baby pictures."

"That's not what it's all about, String and you know it."

"Well it doesn't really matter, Dom, because I'm not going."

"Dammit, String, it's not against the law to remember when you were young and happy and carefree!"

"Maybe not, but I grew up, Dom."

"And you don't think they did?"

"We all went our separate ways and lost touch over the years, maybe it's best just to leave it that way."

"All that aside, why don't you just go and let your hair down and have a good time? We all need a little R'n'R now and again."

"It's not my scene, Dom, now leave it be."

"Ok," Santini let out a sigh of resignation now. "Whatever you say, kid. Give my regards to Michael."

"Sure."

Hawke watched Santini reach out for the door handle, and decided that he needed to say something before the old man went off into the hangar, cursing him under his breath as he went.

He knew the older man well enough to feel sure that he simply wouldn't leave it be, like a dog with an old bone, he would gnaw away at him until he relented and saw what Dominic considered to be sense in the matter.

Subtlety was not Dominic Santini's strong suit, and he was no quitter either. Hawke knew that if he didn't come up with some reasonable explanation, Santini would drive him crazy, asking if he knew the whereabouts of one or the other of his friends from back there, or if he remembered the time when ….

It would make for a much easier life, if he simply told Dominic something to put him off the subject, permanently.

"Look Dom, I know you mean well, and I really can't explain why I feel the way I do, but I'd really appreciate it if you would just let this one go."

Hawke gave the older man an appealing look now.

"Maybe I like my memories of that time and don't want to do anything to taint them? You're right, they were good times, and yes, I guess I was at my happiest back then, but a lot of water has gone under the bridge since then, and I know how much I have changed in all that time. Maybe I don't want to know how much life has changed the other guys. Maybe I prefer to remember them the way they were, and for them to remember me that way too. Maybe I've enough heartache and tragedy of my own to deal with without having to hear all about theirs too."

Hawke knew how cruel and bitter and selfish that sounded, but whilst it wasn't entirely the truth, it was close enough to make the old man understand why he was so set against the idea of revisiting the past.

"Have it your own way kid, just get on the horn and get Michael to organise those supplies, or else I'll be needing to get my slingshot out of mothballs if he comes up with another job for us," Santini sighed, his expression hard and his voice tight, as he reached out for the door handle once more, and Hawke knew that there was something more on his mind.

"Spit it out, Dom," he invited with a sigh. "C'mon. You got something to say, say it."

"Why don't you just tell me the truth, String?"

"I just did."

"No, that's just blowin' smoke, and we both know it. Why don't you tell me the _**real **_reason why you don't want to see the guys again?"

"I've never believed in going back any place, because it's just never the same. The people are different, the times have changed, we've all moved on, and that moment in time is gone forever," Hawke explained in a low, deep voice. "There's no way to get it back Dom, and I don't even want to try."

"You're still not spitting it out, kid."

"Ok Dom, if you really want to know, I made some mistakes, ok? I did some things I'm not proud of and don't want or need to be reminded of."

"Kid, everyone makes mistakes, bad choices, we all do it. It's called living," Santini let out a huge sigh of exasperation. "No-one blames you for Carrie-Ann dying like she did in that car wreck, they were all just pleased that you made it out of there in one piece. Especially me."

Hawke raised one shoulder absently, knowing that he had achieved his objective.

Dominic Santini believed that he was reluctant to face his old friends because he feared they blamed him for the death of one of their dearest friends, his girl friend, Carrie-Ann, a sweet, blue eyed, blonde kid who had been killed when their car had been broadsided by a drunk driver on the way home to eat Sunday lunch with his family, just before Hawke had been due to ship out to Vietnam.

However, that wasn't the whole reason why Hawke couldn't face going back. There were just too many other painful memories, not specifically associated with his days in High School, but with the people who had populated his life, influenced his behaviour and beliefs, who had helped him to find his place in life.

There were other things too, the loss of his parents, the friendships made, and lost, destroyed by his own stupidity and lack of courage, the first tentative steps into manhood, his first experiences of love and lust, his glorious victories and his spectacular failures, all the things that had shaped him into the man that he was today.

Regrets.

Errors in judgement that had highlighted character weaknesses he hadn't known that he possessed, and had come to hate him self for over the years.

Going back there wouldn't change that.

Going back wouldn't enable him to right those wrongs.

And going back would only remind him of those friends who would be missing from the reunion, because they too had followed him to Vietnam, and never returned.

"I thought you were done beating yourself up over this, kid," Santini regarded his young friend with compassion and a hint of pain in his rheumy old grey eyes. "Its way past time you let go and started living your life. Carrie-Ann wouldn't have wanted you to go on grieving for her, and blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault. She loved you, and she wouldn't have wanted this for you, she wouldn't have wanted you to live your life this way. None of them would, kid, not your mother, nor Gabrielle …."

"Dom," Hawke's voice came out on a low hiss of warning, that particular pain still too fresh for him to allow Dominic Santini to start poking away at.

"Ok, I know, leave it be," Santini sighed. "But one of these days String, you're gonna have to face up to it. You are not jinxed. You've had more than your fair share of bad luck, yes, but one day things have gotta look up. Living your life like you're already dead and buried won't make up for the mistakes and bad choices you think you've made over the years, kid."

"We all have to pay the price for our mistakes in the end, Dom."

"You've more than paid; keep paying, over and over!"

"Maybe because I keep making the same mistakes, over and over, thinking the way you do, that one day it might be different, but it never is. I'm just facing up to the truth Dom, I am not meant to find happiness or love, with any woman, because the minute I do, something bad happens, to her, or to me. Forfeit. Payback, for those bad choices, for those errors in judgement."

"That's a crock, String! No matter what you think, you are not a bad man, and you have only done what you thought was right, all these years, I know that. You have to live with your conscience, and that's enough payback for any man. I'm telling you, that debt is cleared, kid, so move on and live the life you were born to live."

"Dom …."

"Ok, kid, I'm done. I see the look in your eyes and I know there's no reasoning with you. I just wish I knew where you got this dumb idea from because, unless I dreamed it, I was there too and all I remember is that you were a happy, well liked young fella who was much admired by the ladies. I know you screwed up, but every young fella does, from time to time, but it wasn't so bad you ended up in jail. I don't remember you ever doing anything so bad that you have to live your life like a monk to atone for it."

With that Dominic Santini yanked the office door open and exiting in a huff, slammed it loudly behind him, causing Stringfellow Hawke to wince and await the sound of shattering glass.

_**Trouble is, Dom, this I never shared, not even with you. **_

_**This was something that I was so ashamed of, and felt so badly about, I couldn't even share the burden with you, old friend.**_

_**And there is nothing that I can do to change it.**_

He reached out and fingered the reunion invitation on the desk before him and let out another ragged sigh.

It shouldn't still matter so much, but it did.

Better to leave it in the past, where it belonged ….

Except that it wasn't confined to the past.

The memories of that awful night coloured almost every thought and deed of his every waking moment, even all these years later, were responsible for making him the man that he was today, making him acutely aware that there were repercussions attached to everything he said and did, not just for himself, but to others.

He had often wished that he could go back. That he could have that night over, and wondered how different life might have been, but it was futile. That page had turned, the ink was dry and indelible, and no amount of wishing that it had been different would make it so.

He had tried to put it right, almost immediately, but it had been futile, too little, too late, and he had had to live with it every day since.

He had long since given up wondering what had happened to his buddies from back then, didn't care, because they hadn't exactly gone out of their way to keep up with him either, and maybe it was for the best.

That night, it was something that none of them had ever really gotten over, but as the years had passed, he had managed to push it to the back of his mind, to make himself go on, because he had no other choice.

Going back would only bring all those difficult memories and emotions to the fore and there was only one person he would wish that he could see there.

But that too was a futile wish, for she seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth, making it perfectly clear that she had no wish to have him contaminate her life, and maybe that was for the best too, for he wouldn't have been able to live with himself, if his jinx had robbed her of her life, her future and any chance for happiness, just because she had the misfortune to be involved with him.

Maybe Fate's intervention on that evening had been a good thing, for it had spared them both the possibility of great heartache in the future.

He picked up the invitation and with one swift motion, tore it in half, then in half again, then half again, until it rained like confetti from his fingers into the waste paper basket under the desk.

He would not be going, and that was final.

No chance of being confronted with more spectres from his past, no awkward questions and no reason to speculate on where she might be, and with whom.

No chance to discover that life hadn't been so kind to her either, that maybe that night had just been so momentous, she hadn't ever gotten past it either, and it had wrecked her future, leaving her hating him.

No chance either, of him discovering for certain that she had died, a very long time ago.

She lived, in his memory.

That one perfect moment burned into his brain, when nothing else had mattered except her warm, vibrant lips against his own, the look of rapture on her face, when for the first time, he had _**really**_ looked at her and seen the true beauty within, and he had known what it meant to feel truly cherished for the first time in his life.

That was the way he preferred to remember her.

Ignorance, in this particular instance, was definitely bliss.

Still, even though he had made the decision, and knew it to be the right one for the sake of his sanity, he could not stop himself from remembering her face, the other look, the one that haunted him, awake or sleeping, unwanted memories crowding in on him, persistent and overwhelming as he replayed in his mind the events of that fateful night fifteen years before, when he had been forced to see himself as others did, and had found himself wanting.

That was the night he had come face to face with his true self, and had been shocked and ashamed and disappointed with what he saw.

Fighting in Vietnam, losing St John, had begun the process, but it was that night when he had finally grown up.


	2. Chapter 2

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.

Chapter Two

**Christmas, 1969.**

"Here …" Chip McGuire thrust an ice cold bottle of beer at him. "And loosen up a little man," he added with a deep sigh of frustration and impatience. "This is supposed to be a party, not a damned wake!"

Stringfellow Hawke ignored the jibe, and the pointed looks being aimed in his direction by Chip, and the rest of his old High School buddies, and shrugged deeper inside his tan suede jacket, the chilly breeze coming in off the ocean tugging at his hair, as he deftly unscrewed the top off the beer bottle and took a long gulp.

"Take it easy man," Stu Blewitt advised over his shoulder, as he watched his young friend gulp down another swallow of his beer. "It's gonna be a long night. Pace yourself."

"Let him alone," Phil Clements lent his voice to the proceedings now. "If the guy wants a drink, let him. Not too many chances for him to get blind stinking drunk where he's just been, eh Hawke?"

"You're kidding, right? Don't think there's much chance of him getting stoned out of his mind on this baby's milk. But, if he wants to try, then I say go for it, after all he did pay for most of it!" Chip reminded with a raucous laugh, and it was obvious that he had already begun partying long before he had met up with the rest of the gang, and on something much stronger than the beer in the ice chest. "Where the hell are the girls?"

It was a rhetorical question, and this time the whole gang laughed, with the exception of Stringfellow Hawke, who, scowling, drained his beer bottle, tossed the empty over his shoulder into the sand dunes behind him and reached into the ice chest for another.

He knew that it would not help, but he twisted off the cap anyway, and took another long swallow.

It had been a bad idea.

This whole thing had been a bad idea, but, especially the beer.

Cheap gut-rot, with about as much real alcohol in it as root beer, by virtue of the fact that Dominic Santini had had to go to the store to buy it for him, and deemed that it was good enough for him and his buddies to party the night away on the beach with.

_**Gee, thanks, Dom!**_

_**Old enough to put his life on the line to fight for his country, but not old enough to drink real beer with his buddies!**_

When the guys had heard that he was back in town, on leave, they had set about trying to show him a good time.

Lots of girls and lots of beer, all of it as cheap and nasty as tonight's offering, but he had appreciated the gesture, if nothing else.

They had organized a party every night in his honour, at one or the other of their houses, with lots of things designed to dull any and every imaginable pain known to man. Booze, pills, weed, something a little stronger, if he was so inclined, but Hawke had never been into drugs and had no intention of getting started, no matter how bad he felt.

His dear old friend Dominic Santini was already deeply disappointed with his behaviour since he had gotten home, but to his credit, the older man had put up with it, to a point, because he knew what really lay behind it.

However, Hawke also knew that the old man would blow his stack, and probably disown him, if he were to come home as high as a kite, or worse still, if the old guy found himself being hauled out of bed in the middle of the night to bail his young friend out of jail.

Stringfellow Hawke was already deeply ashamed of the way that he had been acting, but he had a better reason for not giving in to temptation, as far as drugs were concerned.

He wasn't willing to do anything that might jeopardize his chances of going back.

To Vietnam.

To find St John.

He had vowed that this little beach party would be his last.

After tonight, he planned on getting his act together, straightening himself out and getting back into shape, so that when his leave was over he would be ready to face the task ahead.

Bringing his beloved brother home, alive.

St John, his older brother, had been missing in action in 'Nam, since July 4, Independence Day, that wretched day five months ago, when the Hawke family's unlucky streak had once again made its self known, decreeing that on that day both the Hawke brothers see action in the same aerial battle, and that both brothers would be shot down by enemy fire. Neither brother had sustained critical injuries but headquarters had deemed that the bullet wound to String's shoulder was more serious than St John's numerous cuts and grazes, and therefore made it more of a necessity for him to be rescued first.

However, when the Huey had returned to pick up St John at the designated co- ordinates, there had been no sign of him.

The younger Hawke brother had been devastated, almost insane with guilt and grief, as he lay in a field hospital, wracked with fever, after the bullet wound he had sustained to his shoulder became infected and his weakened immune system struggled to stop it from taking hold.

After his release from the hospital a couple of weeks later, Stringfellow had returned to his unit, restricted to desk duties until his injury had healed, but frustration had set in, and impatience to actually be doing something other than sitting on his ass, sweating his kahoonies off, and after one particularity crazy stunt which had resulted in him "appropriating" a MedEvac helicopter to go in search of his brother himself, frustrated because he felt that the Army was doing little to find St John, his CO had grounded him permanently, until he "got his head out from up his ass", and could prove that he could "toe the line and follow orders".

Grudgingly, Stringfellow Hawke had tried to do just that, needing to prove to his comrades that he could be trusted once more, until three months later, the strain had started to show, causing Hawke to make some bad mistakes in judgement, both in combat, taking risks that were unnecessary, and in his dealings with other pilots, picking fights and brawling at every opportunity, rising to their baiting about his being responsible for the loss of his brother.

Finding that he really had no other choice, Hawke's CO had deemed it time for him to go home and get some R'n'R, telling the young man to get what ever it was that was "eating at him", out of his system, because he wasn't any use to man or beast in his present condition, and that whilst he was not totally unsympathetic to the younger man's situation, neither was he prepared to sit back and watch one of his most promising pilots burn himself out, or get himself killed because his mind was not where it should be, reminding the young man that it was just too easy to die out there as it was.

Left with no other choice, Stringfellow Hawke has been on the next scheduled transport home, and with nothing but time on his hands, to think, to stew, both his mood and his temper had quickly deteriorated.

He had thought that getting drunk might give him a few hours respite from the guilt and the grief, the anger and self recriminations, the self loathing, the alcohol affording him a few hours free from pain, like an anaesthetic, but he didn't have any tolerance for the strong stuff, even if he had been able to get his hands on it, and the cheap grog Dom stocked his refrigerator with only made him feel morose and helpless and left him feeling nauseous and groggy, the next morning.

Instead of feeling better, the anger and the agony had only intensified with each beer, and he had needed more and more of the stuff to reach even a modicum of relief, which in turn meant that by the time he had downed enough to make a difference, he had turned into a mean and nasty drunk, surly, aggressive and unreasonable, lashing out at Dominic Santini, because he didn't think that it was fair that _**he**_ should be the only one in pain.

Except, even as he was lashing out, Stringfellow Hawke knew that Dominic was hurting every bit as much as he was.

Santini had been the closest thing to a father that the Hawke boys had had since their own father, his dearest friend, Steven Hawke, had met his untimely death, along with their mother, Constance, just over seven years before.

Stringfellow Hawke knew that the old guy loved St John and himself as if they were his own flesh and blood, and that his grief was as powerful at the loss of St John as was Hawke's own.

He should have been reaching out to Dom, sharing memories of happier times, but instead, he had withdrawn into himself, thwarting the older man's every attempt to get close to him, to offer him comfort, support, forgiveness, seeking these things from the young man in return, but Hawke wasn't ready to give in to these things, seeing them as the ultimate betrayal of his brother.

He wasn't ready to believe that St John was dead.

He would never believe it. Not until he saw it for himself.

_**Had he really only been home for three weeks?**_

_**It seemed like an eternity.**_

It had come as a shock to him to realise that it was almost Christmas, and that all his friends would be lounging around, or hitting the beach, enjoying the break from their various colleges.

Dominic Santini had encouraged him to mix with the crowd from his old High School, partying and just hanging out like normal kids. Christmas was normal, and so very far removed from what Hawke had experienced in more recent months, and although Hawke had felt guilty for every moment of pleasure and happiness he felt in their company, because he was acutely aware that his brother was lost, and might never know such innocent pleasures again, he had soon discovered that it was better than hanging around the hangar all day with Dominic Santini, conveniently finding stuff for him to do to fill the time.

Tonight's beach party was the last hurrah.

For all of them.

Colleges would be starting up again in the New Year, and they would all drift away, back to their real lives, and the Christmas odyssey would be over with for another year.

After this, Hawke had vowed solemnly, he would be as sober as a judge. Clear thinking and keeping his wits about him were the only things that would help him to find St John. Besides, these past few weeks he had learned that there wasn't enough alcohol in the world to take away his pain, so he had better learn to live with it. Once he did that, maybe he could use it in a positive way, to his advantage.

Like he had done after Carrie-Ann had died.

Another pain.

Still more guilt and grief.

No matter how many people told him that the accident which had killed his then girlfriend, the young, beautiful, vibrant and vivacious Carrie-Ann, had not been his fault, no matter how many times they tried to reassure him, and acknowledge that he had done everything physically possible to try to avoid the collision on that bright, early January Sunday afternoon, almost a year ago, assuring him that it had been the other driver's fault, when he had made the fateful, and fatal decision to have another couple of beers, before driving home to eat lunch with his family, Stringfellow Hawke still blamed himself.

He had learned an invaluable lesson that day.

Everyone who got really close to him was doomed to die.

His parents.

Carrie-Ann.

And now, maybe his beloved brother, St John too.

Stringfellow Hawke himself might be bullet proof, immortal, but anyone whom he cared for, or whom might come to care for him, was destined to come to an early and sticky end.

_**Well,**__** no more.**_

_**It ended now.**_

He would never put someone else's life in danger, even if it meant that he never allowed himself to love again.

All that mattered was getting St John home. All he would need after that was his brother's love.

Hawke drained the beer bottle, lobbed the empty over his shoulder into the sand dunes, where it fell next to the other with a satisfying shattering sound, and reached into the ice chest for yet another, angrily twisting off the cap to take another deep swig.

He was on his fourth, or maybe it was his fifth beer when the girls finally arrived in a flurry of shouting and giggling, as they teased and cajoled the guys about the fire they had built ready to receive the steaks, burgers and hot dogs that they had brought for the 'cook-out'.

He was far from drunk, but he was feeling pleasantly mellow and more relaxed than he had felt all day.

Someone had brought a radio, or one of those portable record players, and soon the latest hit tune was rising over the sound of the distant, receding waves, as the night was filled with the sound of young voices raised in song punctuated by the odd slightly drunken shout, or peels of laughter.

Stringfellow Hawke greeted each of the girls with a silent nod, recognizing Chip's latest conquest, Rebecca, as well as Stu's long term girlfriend, Marcia, and quite a few other familiar faces from the crowd they used to hang out with in school.

Despite the fact that he was feeling mellow and chilled, pleasantly fuzzy if not quite drunk, Stringfellow Hawke was still able to realize that one face in particular, although familiar, was strangely out of place.

Mackenzie Jarvis.

Stringfellow Hawke swilled back more beer and frowned, as he briefly contemplated why she was here.

He did not know that much more about her now, than when she had showed up at the start of the new school year, September, three years before.

At that time his head had been filled with more important things like getting good grades, to keep Dominic Santini off his back, making the school football team and athletics squad, and catching the next "monster tube", at the weekend beach surf parties he frequented with his good buddies Chip, Stu and Phil.

He hadn't taken too much notice of the new chick, certainly hadn't gone out of his way to get to know her, because that just wasn't cool, but he would have had to have been blind, deaf, dumb and stupid not to have been aware of the way that the rest of his classmates treated her.

_**Poor kid.**_

Mackenzie Jarvis was one of nature's natural targets. English, which in an era when the Beatles and all English pop music was the coolest thing on the planet, should have made her interesting and "hip". Unfortunately, she didn't have the Beatles quaint Liverpool, Scouse accent, possessing instead a strange edge to her hoity-toity accent, a clipped and precise way of speaking that made her sound very old fashioned and a cut above the rest of them.

The gang couldn't resist making fun of her 'la-di-dah' accent, and the way she looked was a gift for their cruel jibes.

Of medium height, but a little on the heavy side, she required thick lensed eye glasses to see past the end of her nose, and her skin was red and blotchy and inclined to break out in acne as soon as the sun came up over the horizon, where other girls with poor complexions might have benefited from the healing effects of the California sunshine.

Mackenzie Jarvis was new and she was very different, and that was enough to make her fair game, the butt end of every cruel joke, vicious rumor, or childish prank that her peers could come up with.

Even her name was odd and cause for mirth.

Although Stringfellow Hawke hadn't actively participated in this spiteful and malicious campaign against Mackenzie Jarvis, he now supposed, as he swilled back more beer, that he was just as guilty, by association, as the rest of them, because he hadn't actually done anything to stop his buddies, even though he had known that it was wrong.

Now, sitting some way apart from the others, knees drawn up tightly into his chest as he nursed his beer bottle, Hawke could not help wondering why she had been invited to this little shindig, and found him self suspecting that his buddies had set her up to be the brunt of some new cruel practical joke.

He watched his friends as they danced in the fire light or heaped more driftwood on to the fire, or snuck off into the dunes to make out, and found him self studying Mackenzie Jarvis, realizing as he did so, that right here, right now, he probably had more in common with her than ever before.

They were both on the outside, included, but not really belonging.

They were both different.

Too different for the others to understand.

He took another swig of beer and studied her face, highlighted by the golden glow of dancing fire light.

He hadn't really looked at her before.

_**Not r**__**eally**_ looked.

Now, he found himself thinking that he must surely be drunker than he had first thought, because there was nothing ugly in the face of the girl who sat alone, on the other side of the fire, on the fringe of the party, nursing a bottle of Coke.

_**Now who was being cruel?**_

Hawke let out a soft, boozy belch, as he tried to contemplate what constituted ugly anyway.

_**B**__**eauty **__**is in the eye of the beholder**_, wasn't that what Dominic was always telling him?

_**Beauty**__** is**__**,**__** as beauty does**__** ….**_

That little gem had been one of his mother's favourite pearls of wisdom.

Ok, so Mackenzie Jarvis wasn't the prettiest picture in the gallery, but there was certainly nothing offensive about her plain, open features. She didn't have fat, hairy warts growing out of her chin, nor were her eyes crossed, or too close together or anything like that either, and her complexion seemed to have cleared up at last.

The unflattering eye glasses were gone, he noticed immediately, replaced, he assumed by contact lenses, and she even seemed to have lost a little of the extra padding that she had carried when he had seen her last, when they had graduated the previous summer, although she still had what was nowadays called a curvaceous figure and an ample bosom, and her straight, mouse brown hair was longer than he remembered, left loose, and blowing around her shoulders.

In fact from this distance, and with several beers under his belt, Stringfellow Hawke couldn't see anything wrong with Mackenzie Jarvis after all.

She wouldn't stop any parades, or conquer worlds, but she wasn't all that bad looking, in spite of those few extra pounds that she still carried.

Stringfellow Hawke realized that he was as guilty as the others, in judging a book by its cover.

He had stood back and watched his friends make her life a living hell for the best part of three years.

Guilty of apathy and indifference, if nothing else.

_**So maybe that made him the ugly one?**_

As this thought nagged away at his beer soaked brain, Mackenzie Jarvis turned to look in his direction, their eyes meeting, briefly, in the flickering fire light, and for the briefest moment, Stringfellow Hawke's heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in the back of his throat, when she raised her Coke bottle to him in salute, and smiled.

"Hey Hawke, why don't you ask Jarvis to dance!" Chip shouted, trying desperately to smother a giggle. "No need to be lonely, man!"

Despite the alcohol he had consumed, Hawke immediately realized what was going on here, and his heart sank.

The guys had invited her along as a kind of blind date for _**him**__**.**_

No doubt they had thought it highly amusing, fixing him up with the ugliest girl in school.

Except that none of them were in school anymore, and out here, in the real world, it was a cruel and despicable and hateful thing to do.

_**Cruel bastards!**_

When would they ever learn that you couldn't go around messing with people's heads, with people's emotions like that?

Why should they want to hurt her, humiliate her, when she had never been anything but pleasant and tolerant and dignified in the face of their appalling behavior?

And now they had made him a part of it to.

No matter how he reacted. No matter what he said, or did, he would be every bit as vile and cruel and hateful as the others.

"Go to hell, Chip!" Hawke spat out, rising quickly, staggering slightly in the uneven sand beneath his feet, beer sloshing all over him from the open, half empty bottle, in his less than steady hands.

"Hey, take it easy, man. What's the matter? Can't take a joke any more?"

"It's not funny, Chip. It never was! Don't you see that?"

Hawke wobbled precariously, more from the softness of the sand moving beneath his feet than from the effects of the alcohol, as he raged at the boy that he had once thought was his closest friend, but was now a stranger to him, then realized that they were the ones who were all looking at _**him**_, as if he were a stranger who had gate-crashed their party and spoiled their fun.

"All I see is a pathetic drunk!" Chip bellowed above the strains of a new tune coming from the record player.

Stringfellow Hawke stopped dead in his tracks, the first few bars of the hit song instantly recognizable to him, and he felt as though the breath had been knocked out of him.

He hated this song.

It had haunted him these past three weeks.

Taunted him.

Mocking him.

It was almost as though the damned thing had been written to remind him of his failure to St John.

"_**The road is long, with many a winding turn, that leads us to who knows where, who knows when …."**_ A pleasant male voice sang out, but all Stringfellow Hawke could see was endless steaming jungle, all he could hear was the deafening roar of battle, and then, at last, his own pathetic voice, calling out in desperation for his brother, St John. _**"He ain't heavy, he's my brother …."**_

"You're pathetic man!" Chip was practically in Hawke's face now, unaware and uncaring of the inner turmoil that had suddenly put that sickly look on his former friend's face, his own face twisted into something grotesque by anger and contempt.

"You think you're so much better than the rest of us, with your high morals and loyalty to Uncle Sam! You put on a uniform and strut around like you're King of the hill, but you're nothing man! Nothing! It didn't take long for the High and Mighty Stringfellow Hawke to find that out, did it!"

"Take that back, Chip, take it back now!"

"No way, man."

"Dammit, Chip …."

"You're no better than the rest of us Hawke, in fact, your dumber than all the rest of us put together, 'cos we have at least got the sense not to go get ourselves shot at over a dirt poor, rats nest of a country at the ass end of the world …."

Both young men squared up to each other now, anger suffusing both of their faces with heat and color.

"Sorry man, I forgot, your sense of humour wasn't the only thing that you _**lost**_ out there!"

This jibe hit the mark, as the sneering young man had known that it would, and as the veil of red mist began to descend before his eyes, Stringfellow Hawke came out swinging.

In no time at all, as punch after punch was thrown, some dodged, others finding their mark, he and Chip were rolling around in the sand, going at it, hammer and tongs.

"Enough! For god's sake somebody bloody well do something!"

As Hawke dodged one more punch by rolling to his left, trying to protect his recently healed shoulder then geared himself up ready to throw a swift right hook in return; he marvelled that above the shouts of encouragement, from his so called friends, the one lone voice of reason had a distinctively English accent.

"Break it up someone!" Mackenzie Jarvis implored. "For god's sake if he goes back to the army covered with cuts and bruises, the only place he'll end up is in the stockade! They'll charge him with 'conduct unbecoming' and he'll serve some serious time in jail! You bloody idiots!" She railed.

Suddenly, Mackenzie Jarvis, uncaring of her own safety, marched into the middle of the melee, just as both young men staggered to their feet and prepared to start round two.

"Get out of the god damned way, lard-ass!" Chip roared at her, but Mackenzie Jarvis defiantly stood her ground. "You want some too? Huh? Do ya? Do ya!" He jeered.

"Think you're up to it, big man?" Jarvis taunted back, and heard the collective gasp of the shocked crowd of teenage onlookers, as Chip's right fist clenched and unclenched reflexively at his side, and he took a menacing and unmistakably threatening step toward her.

"And you," she turned to pin angry dark eyes on a startled Stringfellow Hawke now. "I would have thought that you would have had more bloody sense! Do you like hospital food so much you can't wait to get back there!" She quickly turned back to find Chip looming over her threateningly.

However before the enraged young man had a chance to raise his fist against her, Mackenzie Jarvis quickly moved forward and thrust her right knee up into Chips exposed groin, and as he folded in on himself, winded and shocked by her actions, she moved forward a little more and placing both her hands squarely upon his large, broad shoulders, pushed him back with all her might.

Chip landed heavily on his ass in the sand, shocked by the unexpected assault on his family jewels and outraged to suddenly realize that several of the onlookers were actually sniggering at his sudden downfall.

Face flushed with heat and rage, he made to rise, staggering as ungainly as Hawke had in the uneven sand.

"Want some more?" Mackenzie Jarvis placed her hands defiantly on her hips and sighed impatiently. "Guys like you never learn, do they?"

"Learn what, Jellyroll?"Chip demanded breathlessly, rocking unsteadily as he fought to regain his balance.

"A knee to the crotch often offends. It doesn't do much for your chances of getting out of the soprano section of the church choir, either!" She smirked.

"What? What the hell did you say? You'll pay for that, lard-ass, just you wait!"

"I am breathless with anticipation," Jarvis sneered. "If you're as imaginative with your plans to get revenge as you are with you line in insults …."

"Lard-ass …."

"There you go again, right on cue. Can't you think of anything better? Look, pee wee, I may be a little on the heavy side, but the difference between us is, I can lose weight, you, on the other hand, will always be an idiot who keeps his intellect in his jockey shorts!"

Chip let out a murderous roar, but before he could launch himself at Mackenzie Jarvis, Stu and Phil and a couple of the girls rushed forward to grab him and hold him back, while she remained unmoved in the face of his rage, watching without so much as a hint of a fear as they forcibly dragged the kicking and screaming young man away.

Mackenzie Jarvis turned at last to find a stunned Stringfellow Hawke staring at her in fascination; he's bottom jaw hanging open in amazement as he continued to breathe hard after his exertions with Chip.

"Well? Are you just going to stand there, catching flies all night?" Jarvis eyed him curiously.

"Huh?"

"So articulate!" She rolled her eyes heavenward in exasperation. "Let's walk, Stringfellow," she waved her hand towards the distant path between the dunes. "You need to cool down, and sober up a little," she spoke in a soft voice. "Unless, of course, you're ashamed to be seen out with the fat chick?"

Hawke could not fail to recognize the challenge in her eyes, which he could now see were the most unusual shade of dark green that he had ever come across.


	3. Chapter 3

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.

Chapter Three

When he did not readily answer her, Mackenzie Jarvis simply shrugged her shoulders then stepped around him and began to walk slowly away from him down the beach.

Hawke watched her make slow progress towards the surf, then veer off toward the path to the dunes, then glanced back to where his so-called buddies were pushing each other around and shouting angrily at each other, while the girls started to put away the packages of food, cutlery and crockery, and threw sand on the fire to kill the flames, obviously upset that their evening of revelry was over practically before it had begun.

With a heavy heart, he realised that there was nothing left for him back there, and he was too much of a gentleman to allow Mackenzie Jarvis to go off into the night on her own.

Even though it now seemed that she was more than capable of standing up for herself.

_**Hey what about that**_?

_**Who would have thought it**_?

One thing was for sure, Chip would be an idiot to tangle with her again. Yet Hawke knew that the other young man would not be inclined to let the matter rest.

She had made him look foolish.

Foolish _**and**_ weak.

She had made him look small and pathetic and insignificant, and she had done it in front of an eager and attentive audience of all his friends.

It didn't matter that all she had done was turned the tables on him, embarrass him, put him down, quite literally, as he had planned to do to her.

All that would matter to Chip was that he had been bested by a girl, shown up in front of his friends by someone that he and they considered to be an outsider.

A freak.

Mackenzie Jarvis probably had no idea that she had made herself an enemy tonight.

Stringfellow Hawke supposed that he should go after her and tell her. He owed her that much, and while he was about it, he'd give her a piece of his mind too.

What had she thought that she was doing, butting in like that?

He had got it under control.

He hadn't needed her to rescue him.

_**And now you're thinking like Chip**_, he told himself sternly, for he knew that she had been right about his future career prospects in the Army. If he had reported back for duty looking like he had just done twelve rounds with Mohammed Ali, 'conduct unbecoming' would only have been the half of it!

On leave or not, in or out of uniform, he was still a serving soldier in the United States Army and was required to conduct himself accordingly, at all times, and not bring disgrace or dishonor on the uniform.

Obviously his so-called buddies didn't care about the trouble he might have gotten into.

Stringfellow Hawke knew that he didn't need those kinds of buddies.

She was also right about his recent shoulder injury, he acknowledged silently as he felt a twinge of pain from the joint now.

He glanced back toward the group of teenagers, drunk, rowdy, and angry that their plans had been thwarted, not one of them in the slightest bit concerned that Mackenzie Jarvis had walked off alone into night, or, that he was still standing there confused, hurt and angry, trying to work out what it really was that had set Chip off, and he realised that it was time to move on.

That, indeed, he already had.

He had made choices that had ultimately changed his life. Changed him. He had grown up, as well as grown away from his old friends, and now there was no going back.

He had seen things and done things that had changed him beyond the normal transition from boyhood to manhood. It has been a sharp learning curve, hard to digest, and even harder to believe and accept, beyond his ken or his power to control.

Fighting for his life and having to leave behind his beloved brother had changed the young man beyond the comprehension of those whom he had left behind.

Hawke knew that he had little or nothing left in common with the likes of Chip and Stu and Phil. They didn't share his passion to fight for his country, to defend unto death, everything that they took for granted, every day, and they would never understand what he had felt when he had been shot down, the fear, the shame, because he had failed and the utter despair that had torn at his heart, when realisation had set in, that his failure could have signed his beloved brother's death warrant.

He didn't need them any more.

They would never understand what made him the man that he was, what drove him, not while they still clung to childish things like getting drunk and playing cruel, sadistic jokes on an innocent, just for a laugh on a Friday night.

Chip was wrong about him.

Stringfellow Hawke didn't _**think **_he was better than them.

Stringfellow Hawke _**knew **_that he was.

He believed in fairness, justice, freedom and loyalty, the same values that had driven his father and Dominic Santini to fight in Europe, and the Pacific, and then again in Korea.

More importantly, he wasn't a quitter.

Now that he had started this thing, he would see it through to its end, and he would pursue his vow to find his brother and bring him home, until his dying breath.

Something else that Chip and the other guys would never understand.

Tossing the nearly empty beer bottle into the dunes to fall with a clatter amongst the others, Stringfellow Hawke thrust his hands deeply into his jacket pockets, and buffeted by the increasingly chilly breeze off the ocean, he set off down the beach in search of Mackenzie Jarvis.

It didn't take long to spot her, sitting amongst the dunes, snuggled up inside a warm jacket, hugging her knees to her chest. The moon was full tonight and cast an eerie silver glow, a ghostly aura around the young woman, as she sat staring at the ocean, hypnotized by the motion of the distant waves and the swirling white surf breaking further down the beach.

Hawke came to a halt and silently took in the scene before him.

The girl looked calm, peaceful, seemingly unfazed by what had transpired just a few minutes before. There was such a sweet, enigmatic smile on her lips, her face now upturned towards the inky sky, eyes closed as she savoured the peace and tranquility of the night.

"You can come a bit closer, I won't bite," she spoke without opening her eyes, and Stringfellow Hawke felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips.

"Promise?"

"Promise," she assured and her own smile grew just a little wider.

Hawke walked slowly towards her then sat down with a heavy sigh, beside her.

They sat in silence for several minutes, and it was Hawke who finally broke the silence.

"When did you get so tough?"

"I've always been tough, Stringfellow," Mackenzie let out a soft, and wistful sigh. "I've always had to be. On the inside. When you look and sound like I do, you've got to be strong. Humour and bravado can get you so far, but in the end, sometimes the only way to get through the day, is to tough things out and make yourself as hard as nails," she opened her eyes at last and turned her head slightly toward him. "Where you've just been, I guess you know something about being tough too."

Something in her voice mirrored the sadness that Hawke could see in her eyes, and it tugged at his heart. She wasn't talking about putting on a brave face when confronted with an insult, or at being the brunt of some cruel joke. She was hinting at something much deeper.

"It's a test of character Stringfellow; I guess it's how we discover what kind of people we really are on the inside. The way we deal with tragedy and loss."

Hawke did not respond and pulled his gaze away from her earnest expression, knowing that the void that he was feeling in his stomach came from guilt.

How many times had he been party to hurting her, to humiliating her, simply because he hadn't cared enough to step in and stop his friend's cruelty?

"I'm sorry, I didn't know what they were planning," he stammered at last, shivering as an icy finger of wind clutched at his jacket collar, pulled back his shirt and worked its way down his spine to his waist.

"I had my suspicions, Stringfellow,"

"String, call me String."

"And I'm Mack," she smiled gently at him, and again Hawke found himself relaxing, just a little. "Of course, I know that they call me lots of other things, behind my back, but I pretend not to hear them, because I know if I react, they will just do it all the more."

"Yeah." Hawke empathized. It had taken him a long time to learn not to react to the way other kids had taunted him about his strange name, but they had only been little kids, and they had all soon grown out of it and moved on.

"Mackenzie, I know, what the hell kind of name is that anyway? Comes from my family's Scottish roots," she explained with a soft sigh. "Some ancient, dried up old bag of bones buried in the Highlands for centuries, probably, and I've always thought it was way over the top, and definitely not quite what might come to mind, when you see a great lump like me."

Again Hawke forced his gaze away from her, hating the slight note of self-loathing he could hear in her voice, knowing that people like him and his friends had probably put it there over the years.

"I have no illusions about the way I look, String," he could hear the quiver in her voice now and hated himself even more. "Over the years it has been, er, drawn to my attention," she paused to draw in a soft breath and he finally looked at her, only to find a soft, self deprecating smile on her face, and her dark eyes bright with unshed tears. "And believe it or not, not even I am dumb enough to fall for their assurances that the most attractive guy in school was eager to take me out on a date."

As she finished speaking, her chin came up, just a little, in defiance.

"Is that what they told you?"

"Uh huh,"

"So why did you come?" Hawke frowned now. "Why go along with them, if you thought they just wanted to make fun of you?"

"Curiosity. I wanted to see how you are doing, and I was curious to know just how far they were prepared to go, and to see if you were in on too," she confessed. "I'm English, but contrary to popular belief, that's not a euphemism for stupid. I knew there was something off about it, but what the hell," she shrugged her shoulders briefly. "I don't get asked out to too many beach parties, and a girl can only spend so many nights a week washing her hair."

She was smiling broadly, now, but Hawke was sure that this was just an example of her use of humour to cover up what she was really feeling.

"I wouldn't have come if I'd known."

"And then they would have had just as much satisfaction in allowing me to believe that you had stood me up. They couldn't lose, really, whatever happened."

"And yet you still came."

"Yes. I still came."

Now, it was her turn to look away from him, and Hawke found himself frowning.

"Mack?" he kept his voice soft, gentle, hoping to encourage her to open up to him now.

"I wanted to see if you were okay," she looked at him now, her expression soft and sympathetic. "I heard what happened to you, out there. Heard that you were back, and I heard about what happened to your brother too. I know how close the two of you are …."

"What the hell do you know!" Hawke snarled, feeling a sudden flash of anger, as he realised that she felt sorry for him.

"Probably a lot more than you realise," she shot back on a heavy sigh. "I know that you are in a terrible, dark, lonely place, Stringfellow, and I know that you are hurting, and I know that Mr Santini is terrified that something terrible is going to happen to you too."

Mackenzie Jarvis kept her gaze even and her tone neutral in the face of his anger and waited for him to digest what she had just said.

"Dominic Santini?" she nodded. "How do you know Dominic?" Hawke demanded gruffly.

"We attend the same church," she explained softly, then paused briefly noting the irritation in his expression, and the irrational anger now fizzing in his incredibly blue eyes. "I sometimes help out at Santini Air. Mr Santini needed some help with paper work and his accounts, and I'm good at Math …." Her voice trailed away now.

"Dominic put you up to this?" His tone was full of incredulity and bitterness.

"No String, he has no idea that I'm here, with you, tonight," she assured quickly.

"Then I don't understand ..."

"We talk, Mr Santini and I, now and again. He knows that we were in school together, so he feels comfortable talking to me about you," she explained reasonably. "He loves you very much String, and he is really worried about you, and your brother. He's scared that you feel so bad about what happened to St John …. well he's scared that you might do something stupid. That when you go back, you might get careless …"

"I can't believe that Dom would talk to you about any of that stuff!"

"He's scared for you, String. He's terrified that you are a train wreck looking for somewhere to go off the tracks! He needs to talk to someone, and he doesn't have anyone else. I guess he feels able to talk to me because he knows that I understand ..."

"What do you understand?" Hawke demanded angrily. "Just what the hell do you know any way!"

"Enough to know that you are in deep trouble, my friend," she countered. "Enough to know that if you don't let someone help you, you are going to crack."

"You know jack!"

Hawke erupted, suddenly exploding to his feet and marching down the beach, away from Mackenzie Jarvis, his thoughts in turmoil, as he felt tears welling up in his eyes and his throat tightening.

_**What the hell was Dominic thinking**_!

Mackenzie Jarvis remained seated, and briefly hung her head and then looking up, she let out a soft sigh as she brushed her windswept hair back from her face.

"Fine. Have it your way."

Stringfellow Hawke did not turn to look back at her, but she had raised her voice just enough to follow him down the beach, and there was no getting away from her.

"What do I know anyway? I'm just a dumb girl, right?"

Her voice cracked just a little, but it was enough to make Hawke bite back the angry words that he had been about to hurl at her.

He had no idea why she was still here, goading him, provoking him, but it suddenly dawned on him that even though she probably had every right, this had little to do with baiting him just for the sake of it, to get her own back for all the years of torment she had suffered.

He also suspected that what she had said about Dominic Santini, and his concerns for his young friend's welfare, were true, and felt a brief moment of gratitude that Dominic had someone to share his fears and anxieties with, although for the life of him, Hawke could not understand why Dom should have chosen Mackenzie Jarvis, of all people.

Still, if there was some point to this, he wished that she would make it, and then leave him in peace.

_**Peace?**_

_**Who was he kidding, right?**_

He doubted that he would ever know a moment's peace again, at least until he found St John, and brought him back home safely.

"Guys, I'll never understand them. They think they have to be so tough all the time."

This time, when she spoke, her voice was a little stronger, carried by the breeze and rising over the sound of the tide.

"It's a myth, you know," she continued, and this time, Stringfellow Hawke had to pause, to try to comprehend what she was saying for the words did not make any sense.

Involuntarily, he found himself turning back to face her, a deep frown, furrowing his brow.

Mackenzie Jarvis smiled.

And there it was again, that jolt that shot through his guts and made his heart do a flip-flop in his chest, like he had suddenly been zapped with a thousand volts of electricity.

_**Is that what Leonardo da Vinci had felt, when gazing upon the Mona Lisa?**_

Mackenzie Jarvis fixed her gaze upon Stringfellow Hawke, her expression soft, and her deep green eyes unreadable, from this distance.

"Actually, it's a total crock," she continued, unaware of the errant thoughts and unexpected feelings that were flooding through the stunned Stringfellow Hawke.

"What?" He snarled. "What's a total crock?"

"That men, _**real **_men, don't cry," and again she smiled. "They do, Hawke. I know. I've seen for myself that they do," she confided softly. "I've seen some of the toughest, hardest, bravest nut cases bawl like babies, because their precious cars got scratched, or their dogs died, or their favorite football teams lost a special game …. I'll even bet you a pound to a penny that your dad had more than a few tears in his eyes on the days when you and your brother were born …."

Stringfellow Hawke made no response. He just continued to stare at her in fascination.

"Guys want to believe that hiding their emotions makes them look stronger and more heroic, but I know the truth, Hawke. Real men are the ones who _**can**_ cry, because they know that there is no shame in admitting that they have feelings, and showing them. It's only in movies and on TV that real men don't cry," her tone remained neutral, her expression soft, and in the face of such complete sincerity and understanding, Stringfellow Hawke felt a lump rise up in the back of his throat, threatening to choke him.

_**What the hell was she trying to do to him?**_

"It's only in movies that real men face the tragedies and the heartbreaks in their life with a bottle of booze and a cigarette, and an odd little expression on their face, like their gritting their teeth, that shows the audience that they are feeling _**something**_, before they go on their merry way, pick up the pieces and start all over."

She paused to take a soft breath.

"The guys who do that in the real world, often end up taking it out on the people that they love most, beating on their wives, picking fights with their friends, kicking the cat, or the tires on their trucks," this brought a small, sad smile to her lips, briefly.

"But the ones who can't manage even that little display of emotion, they're the ones who end up losing it completely, killing people or killing themselves. They're the ones who find themselves on the psychiatric wards and in mental hospitals. I know Hawke, because I've seen it. The anger, guilt, shame, they eat away at a man's reason, slowly at first, so he still thinks he can handle it, until he finally loses his grip on reality."

As her words began to penetrate his slow, alcohol addled brain, Stringfellow Hawke, also began to feel his grip on his anger loosening.

She had no right to be talking to him like this.

She had no idea how he was feeling, what he was thinking right at this moment.

She didn't know him.

She was a stranger.

_**She had no right, no right at all!**_

The lump in his throat was getting bigger, and the desire to lash out was growing stronger.

"You are just so full of it!" He bellowed, and enraged at his own lack of self-control, Hawke spun around and marched off down the beach, wanting to get away from the sound of her voice, angrily kicking up sand and broken sea shells, rotting pieces of drift wood and straggly bits of seaweed, as he went, fists clenched, angrily at his sides, as he felt the tears he was trying so desperately to deny, stinging in his eyes, and scalding on his cheeks.

_**Dammit, he wasn't drunk enough after all!**_

_**Keep it together, Hawke, keep it together!**_

However, his body seemed to have ideas of its own_**.**_

He began to shake.

He felt it first in the pit of his stomach, then in his chest, then radiating out to his limbs, knees quaking, hands shaking, uncontrollably.

He couldn't breathe.

And dammit, he couldn't see anything worth a damn for the tears flooding his eyes, and that deafening roaring sound filling his head now had nothing at all to do with the outgoing surf.

Suddenly he staggered, his legs giving way beneath him in the soft, loose sand and he fell, pitching forward, crashing heavily to his knees, arms flailing as he tried to save himself.

Blinded by scalding tears, shaking and disorientated, his breath coming in sharp, staccato, ragged little gasps, heart racing, pounding so hard, he thought that it was about to explode, and then suddenly, Mackenzie Jarvis was falling to her knees before him, her face white and full of concern, as without a second's hesitation, she reached out to him and pulled his weak, cold, useless, shaking body, into the comforting circle of her embrace, pulling him into her warm softness, arms enveloping him, holding him tight.

Hawke grew rigid in her arms, not sure what the hell was happening, nor how he should react.

"Easy, easy String," her voice had a hint of steel in it as he felt her arms tighten about him. "You've got to stop fighting it, String, please. You've got to listen to me. You've got to trust me. Please," Mackenzie Jarvis implored in a soft voice, throbbing with emotion. "You need this, you need this …."

Stringfellow Hawke was too overwhelmed with emotion to fully understand her true meaning, but cocooned in the warm softness of her embrace, all he knew was that suddenly, he was consumed by an overwhelming sense of relief.

He couldn't fight anymore, even if he had wanted to, even if it didn't feel like the most natural thing in the world to give him self up to the comfort of her embrace.

Hawke expelled a long, ragged breath, and allowed himself to relax into Mackenzie's arms, and immediately felt her embrace grow even stronger, briefly, as she squeezed his cold, slender body to her and then she too relaxed her embrace, bringing one hand up behind him to cup the back of his head, applying enough gentle pressure to encourage him to drop his chin down onto her shoulder.

"There, there now, I've got you, I've got you …."

And then the tears came in earnest, cascading down his face in a torrent, sobs torn from his lips with such violence that it sent spittle dribbling down his chin, and Stringfellow Hawke knew that he could not stop, even if his life depended upon it.

The dam had finally burst.

All he could do was hang on until it was out of his system.

Rendered speechless by the storm of emotion, and controlled only by instinct now, Stringfellow Hawke slipped his arms around Mackenzie Jarvis' body and pulled her even closer to him in a fierce hug.

Mackenzie Jarvis let out a startled little gasp and made an involuntary jump, which shocked Stringfellow Hawke. Scared that he had somehow hurt her, Hawke made to pull away, but Mackenzie's arms tightened about him once more, and he felt her body relax into his own.

"It's okay, it's okay," she reassured him gently now, her soft voice close to his ear, her warm breath caressing the sensitive skin on his neck, her lips tenderly brushing his ear lobe, before she pressed a light kiss into his hair.

Stringfellow Hawke let out a deep shuddering sigh and held on tightly, unaware of time moving on, or where he was, lost in the tidal wave of grief, yet cocooned in a feeling of safety.

It wasn't the first time that he had ever held a girl, not by a long shot, but it was, he was slowly able to recognize, the most beautiful of embraces that he had known in his short life, filled with tenderness, and compassion, and understanding, and love.

There was nothing remotely sexual, or even romantic about the embrace, but he knew that what was being offered to him, was indeed love, unconditional and in it's purest form. The love of a fellow human being who had sensed his pain and recognised his need, and was offering comfort and compassion and understanding, to heal him.

And yes, it was exactly what he needed.

_**This**_ was exactly what he had needed.

To deal with his grief, his guilt, his shame, the utter despair and self-loathing that he felt at being responsible for his brother being missing in action.

The basic human need for contact, in times of great emotional stress, the need to feel cushioned, protected, comforted.

To feel safe, at his most vulnerable moment.

"That's right. Let it go, String," Mackenzie encouraged, whispering softly into his ear, her fingers gently stroking his hair in a soothing and comforting rhythm, and his natural reaction was to gather her warm softness even closer, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as hot tears streamed unhindered down his face.

Hawke had no idea how long it lasted, but finally, the sobs that wracked his slender young body began to subside. The tears still fell, but silently now, and slowly awareness began to return.

Awareness, of the all-encompassing darkness of the night that surrounded him.

Awareness, of the wind, teasing at his hair and pulling at his clothes with icy fingers.

Awareness of the sound of the ocean, its constant motion, waves breaking on the shore line and the surf receding, the spit and crackle of the dying fire further along the beach, and from some distance away, the sounds of music. He could just make out the strains of Elvis Presley's recent, unexpected hit, Suspicious Minds, and it flashed through his mind that perhaps it was coming from a car radio, picking up one of the local stations.

Aware too of the scent of salt and seaweed and wood smoke in the air, of the texture and coarseness of the cold sand beneath his knees, through the tough fabric of his jeans.

And then, more keenly, awareness of the young woman he still held in his arms, the softness of her warm body pressed close to his own, the gentle movement of her full breasts against his chest as she breathed, the gentleness of her hand as it moved soothingly up and down his back, and the scent of her, a light floral fragrance coming from her clothes and a more herbal tang, rising from her long brown hair, which had been allowed to hang loose around her shoulders, and which now was being lifted by the breeze to caress his damp cheek.

Stringfellow Hawke was surprised by how calm he suddenly felt.

Peaceful.

Purged.

Safe.

"All done?" Mackenzie Jarvis finally asked in a soft voice, but made no effort to let go of him.

"All done," Hawke croaked in a voice made rough and thick with spent emotion.

"Better?"

"Better."

He let out a deep, ragged sigh, and realised that it was indeed true.

He felt relieved.

Liberated.

At peace.

It felt good.

It felt _**very **_good.

All the anger that he had been feeling, which had been driving him, chipping away at his reason, his sanity and his self control, all the shame and guilt that he had been wrestling with since St John had gone missing, had suddenly seemed to evaporate, along with the tears.

And Stringfellow Hawke was acutely aware that it was the selfless, compassionate young woman in his arms, who had wrought this miracle.

He was so grateful to her, for her persistence, her courage in reaching out to him, marvelling at her wisdom and sensitivity. Savouring the sweet tenderness of her embrace, yet knowing that there was also an underlying strength in it too, that seemed to be flooding into him through her loving arms.

More surprisingly, he realised just how nice, how comfortable, how natural it felt to have her in his arms.

It felt good.

So good, in fact, he didn't want to let her go.

"String?"

"Huh?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he let out another ragged sigh. "You?"

"Yes," she hesitated for a moment then took a breath. "String, you don't have to worry about this, about what happened here. Your secret is safe with me," she felt compelled to reassure, knowing that once he had had time to think about what had just happened, he would probably come over all macho and try to deny that it had happened at all. "I swear, I'll never tell anyone."

"Mack," Hawke faltered, trying to assess his feelings at that moment and knew that he felt no shame or regret about purging himself of all those negative emotions.

Mack had been right.

He had been fighting the need to vent his feelings, because it wasn't macho or manly, but if he had carried on bottling up his emotions, he would probably have ended up blowing his stack and doing something incredibly stupid.

"String?" she prompted

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

There was relief, and a smile in her voice now, and she nuzzled her face gently into his neck, sending a delightful shiver down Hawke's spine.

"String?"

Mack's voice now held a hint of concern, and uncertainty, and Hawke realised that she had probably felt his reaction, and was unsure as to what had caused it.

Hawke felt her suddenly stiffen in his arms, and realised that she was holding her breath, waiting for his next reaction to her closeness.

_**Oh God **_...

Hawke suddenly had a horrible feeling that he knew what had flashed through Mack's mind, and with the awful realisation came a sickening, tightening sensation in his guts.

_**She thought that he was shuddering in revulsion**_!

He was such a clumsy fool! Hawke told himself, as he felt Mackenzie Jarvis move back, away from him a little.

Acting on instinct now, Stringfellow Hawke closed the gap between them once more, and squeezed her even closer to him, willing her to accept his embrace, to accept that he was perfectly content to have her there, feeling as though she belonged, that he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Close to her.

Willing her to believe that, far from being reviled by her nearness, he never wanted to let her go.

"Don't," the word was uttered on a soft sob, as Mackenzie Jarvis again tried to pull back from him.

"Don't what?" Hawke raised his head slightly, from where his chin had been resting on her shoulder, and spoke softly into her delicate ear, as he tightened his arms around her once more. "This?" He cooed. "You mean you don't like it?"

"Well …."

"Then hold still," he breathed, a hint of amusement in his tone now, deliberately keeping his voice soft and low.

"String," the uncertainty in her voice was growing.

"It's nice," he assured her gently.

"String?"

"I like it, Mack," Hawke paused briefly to allow her to take in what he had just said. "I don't want to let you go," he told her in a soft voice, with as sincere a manner as he possibly could. "And I don't want you to let me go, at least not yet. It feels good," he confessed gently. "I like having your arms around me. I like holding you …."

"But ... I ..." she stammered.

"Mack, why don't you try taking a little of your own advice?" Hawke sighed softly, nuzzling his own face into her soft neck. "You need this," he echoed her words to him of only a few minutes before. "Trust me."

"String, this is not what you think," Mack protested.

"Still think you can read my mind, huh?"

"How difficult can it be? You're a guy, right? And you're drunk …."

Her voice quivered and her words were snatched away by the breeze, but not before Stringfellow Hawke recognised the note of hurt and fear and insecurity there.

"Mack?" Hawke slowly straightened up and pulled back from her a little, so that he could look down into her face, but her expression was unreadable, her deep green eyes unfathomable, and Stringfellow Hawke realised that even though she may have given some thought to what she would do to try to help him, she had not considered, how he in turn might react. "Mack?"

"I ... I ..." she stammered again. "I … I didn't mean ..."

"Mack, it's okay," Hawke lifted his right hand and gently cupped her cool, tear streaked cheek. "Yes, I've had a drink, but I'm not drunk. At least not so drunk that I don't know what I'm doing or saying." he assured her softly. "I'm not that kind of guy."

"I know," she lowered her gaze, unable to meet his eyes now, shame and regret flooding her cheeks with heat and color. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

"Okay," Hawke gently lifted her chin so that she had no choice but to look him in the face, a soppy half smile tugging at his lips as he continued. "We've established that you're not a mind reader, so would you like to know what I'm _**really**_ thinking?"

When Mackenzie Jarvis made no response, Stringfellow Hawke gently used his fingers to move her chin up and down so that she was nodding at him.

"Good," his grin grew broader, just a little, and still cupping her face with his hand, he used his thumb to gently stroke her cheek. "I think, this is about a very special person, doing something extraordinary to try to help me," he paused to take a breath. "And it's about my wanting to show that special person; just how grateful I am that she didn't give up."

Hawke paused, gazing down into her dark, expressive eyes, watching her take in what he was saying.

"Oh Mack, what you've done for me tonight," his voice cracked briefly, and he drew in a ragged breath before continuing. "I can't tell you, I don't have the words, but I do know what a unique and precious gift you've just given to me. So let me show you, what I can't say in words. Let me show you how touched I am. Please," he continued to gently caress her cheek. "Ok?"

"Ok," she let out a long, ragged breath, but Hawke could still feel the tension in her limbs, her whole body.

"Then relax," he coaxed, tightening his arms gently about her, drawing her closer so that he could snuggle up to her once more, however, Mack remained rigid in his arms, and frowning, Hawke looked down into her face once more.

"Look, I guess what I'm trying to say is, you helped me so much, you've made me feel so much better, I don't want to let go of that feeling, just yet."

Unable to resist the strong impulse he felt, Stringfellow Hawke gently leaned forward, stroked her cheek with his thumb and then leaned down and pressed his lips to her cheek in a gentle kiss, whispering as he did so, "Thank you, Mack."

As his lips made the briefest contact with her tender flesh, Mackenzie Jarvis actually flinched, and this instinctively made Hawke pull back from her, sharply, wanting to see her face, but she had immediately dropped her head once more, the curtain of her hair falling forward, hiding her expression from him.

"Mack?" Stringfellow kept his voice low, imploring her, hoping to draw her gaze back up to his face, but Mackenzie Jarvis refused to look up at him. "What is it?"

He reached out his hand once more, instinct guiding him to use his index finger to try to lift her chin, but then he thought better of it, not wanting to startle her even more, and still she stubbornly refused to meet his gaze.

"Why won't you look at me? Look at me, Mack. I want to see your face, please!" He implored. "What did I do? Mack? Tell me …."

After a moment's hesitation, Mackenzie, Jarvis drew in a long, shuddering breath, and reluctantly lifted her chin, so that Hawke could see her face.

And what Stringfellow Hawke saw, when she finally met his gaze, caused his heart to constrict in his chest and his breath to catch in the back of his throat.

Mackenzie Jarvis's face was pale and awash with tears, her dark green eyes big and filled with uncertainty.

Unable to stop himself from again acting on impulse, Stringfellow Hawke used his right thumb to reach out and wipe a trail of tears from her cool cheek, but again, Mackenzie drew in a sharp breath and pulled back from him, as though his touch had burned her flesh.

Hawke immediately pulled his hand away from her face, although he did not remove the arm that he still had draped loosely around her waist.

"What is it, Mack?" Hawke asked in a low, breathy voice, but instead of replying, Mackenzie dropped her eyes once more. "Tell me!" He implored again, a hint of fear now in his own voice.

"I really don't think this is such a good idea," her voice trailed away then and still refusing to look at him, she tried to push him away from her.

Hawke kept his arms around her, although he deliberately made sure that he did not hold on to her too tightly, a frown pulling down his handsome features, as he tried to figure out what was going on inside her head.

And then the penny finally dropped.

She thought that he was trying to lure her into a trap, lull her into a false sense of security, that he was playing with her, and then, when she least expected it, he would push her away, that he would do or say something cruel that would hurt her, or humiliate her, or make her look pathetic and stupid.

He had asked her to trust him, but in her eyes, he was still a stranger.

How did she know that he wouldn't laugh at her, that he wouldn't do or say something to hurt her, that he wouldn't use what happened between them now, to ruin her reputation, her life, by spreading some vile, malicious rumour or lie about her?

"Oh Mack, I'm so sorry," And he meant it. "I won't hurt you," he told her emphatically. "I'm not Chip! You've got to believe me. I would never do anything like that!"

Mackenzie Jarvis jerked her head up at last, a shocked expression on her face as fresh tears streamed down her cheeks, her dark eyes huge and filled with pain.

_**He got it.**_

_**He really got it!**_

"I'm not like them, Mack!" Hawke indicated with his thumb back over his shoulder to where they had left the others behind. "But, I guess I can't expect you to believe that, because I've never done anything to stop them from making your life hell."

He hung his head briefly as he let out a deep, ragged sigh then lifted his head and watched as Mackenzie closed her eyes, briefly, and still more tears silently cascaded down her face.

With his heart constricting in his chest, Stringfellow Hawke knew that he did not have a hope of getting through to her.

How could he?

Why should she trust him? Believe him?

Even though he had not actively participated, he was still a part of the group of people who had treated her as if she were a leper, no better than trash, something to be ridiculed and taunted and made to feel isolated and rejected, simply because she was different, because she wasn't normal.

She wasn't like them.

Stringfellow Hawke suddenly realised that Mackenzie Jarvis had probably had to live with a similar kind of torment every day for as long as she could remember, probably come to expect it as normal, and had learned to deal with it, and now here he was, acting completely out of character, and asking her to go against her whole life's experience and her instincts.

And yet, she had been the one to reach out to him.

He realised now just what courage that must have taken, for her to do that, and he found it even more touching, that she had cared enough to take a great risk that he wouldn't turn on her, that he wouldn't reject her, react to her kindness in as vile and vicious a way, as his friends usually treated her.

"I'm sorry, String," Mackenzie Jarvis finally spoke, and the way that she was regarding him, told Stringfellow Hawke that the horror of the thoughts going through his mind was reflected in his own expression.

She looked long and hard into his solemn young face, seeing the regret in his incredibly blue eyes now.

"I just ... I'm not ..." she stammered. "I don't know ..." she floundered.

It was all going horribly wrong, and she so desperately wanted to make him understand why she was reacting in the way that she was, but that would mean having to open up to him about things that she had never been able to share with anyone.

In her clumsiness and because of her lack of experience in these things, she had done the very last thing that she wanted.

She had hurt his feelings.

"You don't know if you can trust me, do you?"

"No," she responded hastily now. "No, it's not that, String, it's just that ... I'm not used to ..."

Her voice trailed off then and she swallowed hard, realising that he deserved to know what was really going on, because she could see genuine concern in his eyes, and knew that he was beating himself up because he thought that he had done something to upset her.

"I'm really out of my depth here, Stringfellow," she confided on a deep, ragged sigh. "I'm ... I'm ..." she stammered, lowering her face briefly to draw in another long breath before continuing. "I'm not used to people being …. nice to me."

"Oh Mack," he instinctively reached out to her, pulling her close to him once more, but again her reaction startled him. She flinched, although she quickly did a very good job of trying to cover her reaction. "Mack?"

"I'm sorry …."

"Did I hurt you?"

"No, no. It's just ... Well, it's just that I'm not used to … this …." she looked down to where his arm encircled her, and again Hawke frowned. "I'm not used to being, well, to being … touched."

The confession was torn from her, and after finally finding the courage to actually say the words, she rushed on.

"No-one touches me. No-one, String. Not even by accident. Oh, I know, I was the one who touched you first, but, you see, so long as I was the one holding you, comforting you, it was okay, but I never dreamed that you might hold me too ..."

Stringfellow Hawke was shocked by her confession.

He couldn't imagine not having any kind of physical contact with another human being.

Despite the fact that it wasn't the manly thing to do, he had often shared embraces with both Dominic Santini and his brother St John, ranging from playful punches to reassuring shoulder squeezes, and full blown bear hugs, discreet demonstrations of affection and support, which had reinforced his knowledge that no matter what, he was never really alone, and endorsed his absolute faith that he was loved.

He could not even begin to imagine how lonely she must have felt, and it went even further into making Hawke feel guilty and ashamed for the way he and his buddies had treated her.

Guilty and ashamed, because now he knew how wrong it had been, because none of them had made the slightest effort to try to get to know her.

Of course, none of them had perfect home lives, perfect families. As it happened, they all came from mixed backgrounds. Few of them from what might be considered normal, loving, two-parent families, but all of them had been lucky to know that they were the product of a once loving relationship, even if their parents could no longer bear to live under the same roof with each other. Divorce, the curse of the 20th century, but it was still preferable to death.

A few of his buddies came from single-parent homes having lost a beloved parent to cancer, heart attack or an accident.

As far as he was aware, he and St John were the only ones to have lost both parents, tragically, but they had more than made up for that loss by being there for each other, and then there had always been Dominic Santini.

Despite the losses in their lives, he and his friends all came from good, stable homes, and were secure and confident with their places within their families, knowing that they were loved.

How was it possible to have gone through two years of High School at the same time, attending some of the same classes, and not know a damned thing about Mackenzie Jarvis and her life outside of the classroom?

They truly were strangers.

Now, Hawke realised that he had no idea what kind of home life Mackenzie Jarvis had.

Indeed, he didn't know anything about her at all.

He didn't know if she even had family.

Maybe her father was a wife beater?

Her mother, a drunk?

Even though these things were outside the realm of his life experience, limited though it was, he wasn't completely ignorant of the ways of the world.

He read books, magazines, watched the TV news. He was aware of the depraved, brutal, and yes, ugly things that human beings were capable of.

Did Mackenzie Jarvis know of these things too? From first-hand, personal experience?

Hawke felt his stomach muscles clenching once more.

What idiots they had all been, what cruel, thoughtless, insensitive, callous bastards, never once entertaining the thought that their cruelty might only be adding to the unhappiness of her home life.

_**Poor kid!**_

At least if he had had a crappy day at school, he had always been sure of a warm welcome when he got home, and a friendly shoulder to cry on, or an understanding ear to bitch in to, someone to laugh with, to cry with, to cajole him, or to just plain tell him to quit griping and get on with it, someone to keep his feet planted firmly on the ground, and to reassure him that no matter what, he was an okay kind of guy, and to keep him sane.

Who did Mackenzie Jarvis have?

Who bolstered her confidence, and told her that no matter how many crappy names she got called, she was a good kid, a valued human being?

With that thought still rattling around in his brain, Stringfellow Hawke suddenly recalled her words of earlier, about having no illusions about the way she looked, and he suddenly knew, with absolute certainty, that Mackenzie Jarvis thought that she was ugly, disgusting, repulsive.

"Why would I?" She finally answered his question in a soft, sad little voice, and dropped her gaze from his face, briefly, before raising her head once more and continuing, "Why would someone like _**you,**_ want anything to do with someone like _**me**_?"

Her voice was so low now that Stringfellow Hawke could barely hear her over the sound of the ocean and the wind gusting around them, but he could plainly hear the pain in her voice, and see it in her dark eyes, as fresh tears welled up and splashed over through her long dark lashes and down on to her cheeks, and Hawke knew that he was right about the way that Mackenzie Jarvis saw herself.

"Someone like you?" He choked out in incredulity.

"Fat …. Ugly …. Stupid …."

Now the words were torn from her on a violent sob, her face suffused with heat and color, her eyes full of distress as she reached up with shaking fingers and delicately traced the outline of his cheek, his strong jaw line. "You are so beautiful, Stringfellow, a truly nice guy," she spoke with such reverence and awe as she gazed adoringly up into his handsome face. "So popular. So well liked. You have lots of friends …."

Stringfellow Hawke gently took her shaking hand in his own, feeling the tremor of her cold fingers against his palm.

"Mack, stop, please!" He implored softly, as he gazed down into her anguished face. "I got lucky. I inherited good genes, but even I know that looks aren't everything," Hawke told her gently now, reaching out to stroke a tendril of her long silky hair from where it was clinging to her tear streaked cheek, comfortingly, and still holding her hand, gave it a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

"It's the things that we do they make is beautiful or ugly, Mack, not how we look, and tonight, all you have done is shown me just how beautiful you are, where it really matters."

He was still holding her hand and he guided it back toward her, to lay it down gently flat against her breast, then covered it gently with his own, interlacing his fingers with hers, so that his finger tips were touching her chest, and felt the quiver that shot through her body as she drew in a long ragged breath.

"In here," he too drew in a long ragged breath and expelled it slowly, on a deep sigh. "And shown me just how ugly I am," he confessed, feeling his heart pounding in his chest and the blood roaring in his ears. "I feel like the biggest heel on the planet, Mack. I'm so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?"

Mackenzie Jarvis made no response, instead she dropped her head quickly and from the shaking of her shoulders, it was plain for Hawke to see that she was crying.

Overwhelmed by a feeling of such tenderness, Stringfellow Hawke carefully extracted his hand from hers, and then encircled her quivering body with both of his arms he gathered her close.

She did not resist him, and instead buried her face in his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist in return.

She gave into the storm of emotion that flooded through her.

As Mackenzie Jarvis wept in his arms, Stringfellow Hawke was more than aware of the violence of her silent sobs, and was moved to cradle her even closer to him. He could feel the heat of her breath, coming in ragged gasps between each sob, through the material of his jacket and shirt, and the wetness of her tears, and he thought that his heart would break.

He couldn't begin to understand what she must be feeling, but, whatever it was, it was so intense, so powerful, and so deeply embedded, it rendered her speechless and made her whole body quake, and it was suddenly obvious to him that she was pouring out a whole lifetime's worth of heartache into his chest.

Guilt wracked him.

Guilt, and shame.

He had believed, all his life, that he had never truly hurt anyone, at least, not intentionally.

He had always seen himself as a champion for those weaker than himself, standing up to the bullies, standing up to injustice, but now, he understood it was easy to cause another human being pain and suffering.

One thoughtless, misspoken word, a harsh, unguarded look, keeping quiet because he didn't want to look weak in front of his friends, not speaking out against the cruelties and the injustices.

_**What did it matter?**_

She meant nothing to him, and he had a lifetime invested in his relationships with his friends.

Mackenzie Jarvis should hate them all.

Yet, never once had she lashed out at them in anger or bitterness.

Never once had she retaliated.

Instead, she had borne all with silent dignity, never once revealing the pain their vile taunts and rejection were causing her.

And her sensitivity and compassion had driven her to reach out to him tonight, despite the chance that she was making herself even more vulnerable to his ridicule, his disgust, and ultimately his rejection.

All she had wanted was to show him that someone cared, not because they had a vested interest, not because they were family, but simply because they understood, that they too had stood in his shoes, in that terrifying, dark, cold, lonely place.

Stringfellow Hawke was beginning to understand why it was that Dominic Santini had found it easy to confide in this young woman.

She was full of warmth and sensitivity and compassion, easy to open up to.

As he held Mack's quivering body close to his own Stringfellow Hawke found himself wondering, who cared about her? Who did she confide in? Who did she turn to when she was at her most vulnerable?

It sickened him to even think that up until this moment, perhaps there had been no-one for Mackenzie Jarvis, and he was deeply moved, glad that he could be there for her in the same kind of way she had been there for him earlier.

Stringfellow Hawke had no idea how long they remained locked in each others arms, but after a while, he became aware that the wind had changed in direction and in intensity, and he knew what that meant.

The tide had begun to turn, the surf now encroaching further and further up the beach. They would have to move soon, or else get wet.

However, Hawke decided to give her another few minutes, to ride out the storm of tears, knowing that she would be more responsive when she was all cried out.

His patience paid off, for roughly five minutes later Mackenzie grew calmer; the occasional hiccupping sob instead of the deep violent, ragged jerks that had wracked her a few moments before, rippling through her body now, and reluctantly Stringfellow Hawke reached out and touched the back of her head gently to get her attention.

"Mack," he spoke her name softly, and at last, Mackenzie Jarvis lifted her face from his chest and looked up at him. "Tide's is coming in. If we don't get to higher ground, we'll be taking a dip pretty soon," he smiled benevolently down at her and again felt his heart constrict in his chest, as he took in the ravages left behind by her bout of weeping, her dark eyes huge and red rimmed, and gazing up at him with such desolation.

"Ok," she rapidly blinked away a fresh crop of tears and nodded gently. "My knees are kind of stiff ..." she confessed awkwardly.

"Mine too," Hawke smiled wryly, as he slowly rose to his feet.

As Mackenzie Jarvis rose, she suddenly stumbled, loosing her footing in the soft, loose sand, and without thought, Stringfellow Hawke reached out to steady her.

Her small hands automatically came to rest on the solid wall of his chest, as she tried to stop herself from overbalancing, pitching forward, and Hawke was suddenly looking down into her face, inches away from her slightly parted lips, and before he could stop himself, he was leaning down, closing that gap, succumbing to the overwhelming desire to kiss her.

He almost expected Mackenzie Jarvis to balk, to pull back from him and slap his face, but it seemed that she still had the power to surprise him, for after a brief moment of hesitation, she gave out a soft little sigh and began to move her lips against his own, slowly at first, tentatively exploring gently, and then more eagerly, urgently, driven more by instinct than experience, but that didn't matter.

Hawke's heart leapt as she kissed him ardently, her arms coming up from their resting place on his chest, to snake up around his neck, her fingers tantalizingly caressing the nape of his neck, twining into his crisp, clean, short cropped hair, nails raking his scalp, sending a delicious shiver down his spine.

Caught up in the moment, Hawke closed his arms around her more tightly, crushing her to him, his hands brushing against the gentle swell of her breasts, on the way, and this time, when she shivered, Stringfellow Hawke was sure it was with pleasure, not surprise, and he knew that her lips were the softest, warmest, sweetest that he had ever tasted.

Stringfellow Hawke had never experienced anything like this in his life before.

He felt giddy, lightheaded, his heart soaring, his blood singing in his veins, and he knew that it was the most extraordinary, most perfect moment of his life, and from the way that Mackenzie was responding to his kiss, his embrace, he felt sure that she felt it too ...

Stringfellow Hawke could not get enough of her, he deepened the kiss, and wound his fingers into her long silky hair, tipping her head backwards so that he could dip his tongue deeply into the sweetness of her mouth, felt her respond with equal need, her teeth, lightly grazing against his lips and tongue, her hands, with those long, delicate fingers, roaming gently up and down his spine, across the play of muscles in his shoulders, then running through his hair once more, before descending to explore the dip of his waist, and the swell of his hips and buttocks.

Another delightful shiver of pleasure ran through his whole body shocking Stringfellow Hawke to his core, and he felt a similar shiver pass through Mackenzie Jarvis, and opened his eyes briefly to look down into her deep, smoky, dark green eyes, which were big, as they gazed back at him with undeniable rapture and passion, and something more.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the most beautiful moment of passion, of peace and contentment and connection with another human being that he had ever experienced, was shattered, by loud, raucous laughter, jeers and whoops, coming from behind him.

"Hey, String, why'd ya stop? It was just getting interesting!"

"Yeah. Get stuck in man!"

"Give it to her, she's dying for it!"

Startled, Stringfellow Hawke felt Mackenzie Jarvis grow rigid in his arms once more, as he was forced to listen to the jeering coming from behind the dunes, and then she was roughly pushing him away from her, fighting to get out of his embrace, breathless, as she staggered back and regarded him with huge, dark eyes.

"Beggars can't be choosers, eh, Hawke!" Stringfellow recognized Chip's drunken drawl, louder than all the rest, taunting him, and jeering him, and Hawke was incensed by the cruelty and crudeness of their behavior.

He also recognised the tune now wafting in on the breeze and felt his heart constrict in his chest, as he looked down at Mackenzie Jarvis and knew that she could hear the song too, and that the lyrics were twisting in her gut and tearing her heart out of her chest, as the damned Shirelles belted out: _**"Tonight you're mine completely, you give your love so sweetly, tonight the light of love is in your eyes, but will you love me tomorrow?" **_taunting both of them.

"Hey man, I guess with a belly full of cheap grog even that fat sow looks good, eh Hawke? And it looks like she's oh so willing too, and why not? This must be the luckiest night in the bitch's life! And I thought you had standards too …"

Chip jeered drunkenly, over the music, but Hawke knew how the rest of the song went, and so, he could see, did Mackenzie Jarvis, and, he could also clearly see that the lyrics mirrored her thoughts, behind those big, dark green eyes, even if Chip's bawling was drowning them out, as he made vile, sexually explicit gestures with his hands, which sickened Hawke.

"But then I guess she's got to be better than those slitty-eyed chicks out there in 'Nam, eh String! I bet you're gagging for it, huh?"

"_**Is this a lasting treasure? Or just moment's pleasure? Can I believe the magic of your eyes? Will you still love me tomorrow?" **_

Chip's face was twisted with anger and bitterness, yet even as every sick, vindictive, vile word found its mark, making Hawke's blood boil, all the young man could do was think if the lyrics of that damned song, mocking him, as he looked into Mackenzie Jarvis's face, willing her to look at him not the nasty jeering, sneering crowd behind him, to concentrate on him, look deeply into his eyes, and see that he had nothing to do with _**this**_, that he would rather die than humiliate her like this.

_**And that yes, he would still love her tomorrow ….**_

_**Surely she could see that he wanted to kill Chip, couldn't she**_?

"Mack?" Her name escaped his lips on a ragged breath, but Hawke knew that it was no use.

Their perfect moment was over, ruined by the stupid, selfish, childish, vindictive actions of people he had once believed would support him and stand by him through the rest of his life, through thick and thin, and he knew that they could have no idea what they had just ruined.

What they had destroyed.

_**How could they?**_

He couldn't fully comprehend it himself, except that he knew in that one brief moment, he had known more joy and more passion than he might ever have hoped to experience, and he knew that Mackenzie Jarvis had felt it too.

"_**I'd like to know if your love, is a love I can be sure of, so tell me now and I won't ask again. Will you still love me tomorrow?"**_

"Mack?" He beseeched her, blotting out those wretched, heart rending lyrics, and the laughter and caterwauling and jeering that was still coming from Chip and the others, willing her to do the same, to concentrate on him and him alone, to trust him.

To believe in him.

"Please, Mack, I had nothing to do with this. I swear! Mack, please, say something. Please!"

Mackenzie Jarvis said not a word, but the expression on her face spoke volumes, the horror and mortification touching Stringfellow Hawke more deeply, pricking his conscience more sharply, than any bitter or angry words ever would.

The look he saw on her face now would haunt Stringfellow Hawke for the rest of his life, and it spoke to him, loud and clear.

It said:

_**I should have known ….**_

_**I should have known better than to trust you.**_

_**I thought you were decent.**_

_**I thought you were honest.**_

_**I thought you were different.**_

_**You asked me to trust you, to believe in you, and then you betrayed me anyway.**_

With the silent dignity that he had come to expect from her, Mackenzie Jarvis stepped around Stringfellow Hawke and walked away from him back down the beach.

He tried to reach out to her, to stop her, desperately trying to find the right words to make it right between them again, but she shrugged him off, the look in those dark green eyes, cold and detached, withdrawn, and it sent a chill through his heart, as with her head held high, and her back ramrod straight, Mackenzie Jarvis mustered all her dignity and then continued to walk away from him, ignoring the jeers and taunts and foul innuendos that were coming from Chip and the gang, and all Stringfellow Hawke could do was stand there and watch her go, barely able to comprehend why he felt as if his whole life had suddenly come to an end, that he had lost something more precious than he would ever understand, even before he had had a chance to know that it was there for the taking.

Willing Mackenzie Jarvis to take one last look back at him, so that she could see what he was thinking, _**feeling,**_ and so that he could see what was in _**her**_ mind and _**her**_ heart too, but she did not even glance back.

She kept on walking, back up the beach.

And out of his life.

Forever.

Hawke knew that he should go after Mackenzie, to at least make sure that she was alright, that she got home safely, and right now, that was the only sane and logical thought going through his head, and the only thing preventing him from marching right over to where the gang were killing themselves with laughter, and punching Chip into the middle of next month!

Hawke knew that no matter how good it might feel, to throw that punch, to feel his knuckles connect with a satisfying crunch against Chip's square, arrogant jaw, it would only be temporary, for it would take more than a few punches to work out this murderous hatred that was blackening his heart, where once love and friendship and a feeling of brotherhood had lived.

Right now, paralyzing rage and genuine concern for Mackenzie Jarvis's welfare, were the only things stopping him.

Then, at last, Hawke was able to grasp at one more sane thought as it popped into his head, and he knew that so long as he lived, he would have Mackenzie Jarvis's quiet dignity to thank for saving him from a life sentence in San Quentin.

He would follow her example.

Walk away.

Quiet.

Calm.

Dignified.

Never giving Chip and the others the satisfaction of rising to the bait, of losing his cool, denying them the satisfaction of knowing just how deeply they had hurt him.

Thrusting his strong, chiselled chin upward in defiance, Stringfellow Hawke forced his leaden legs to move, wading through the soft, loose sand, never looking back, leaving behind him the last vestiges of childhood friendships and allegiances, a piece of himself that he would never find again, and with a new determination to be a bit more selective and circumspect about his choice of friends in the future.


	4. Chapter 4

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.

Chapter Four

Stringfellow Hawke trudged forlornly back to where he had parked the borrowed Santini Air Jeep, but there was no sign of Mackenzie Jarvis along the way. The parking area was quiet, no people milling about, just a handful of empty vehicles and he had no idea how Mack had gotten here. Had she driven herself, or hitched a ride with the other girls?

He experienced a moment of fierce anxiety at the idea that maybe she had had to resort to walking, or thumbing a ride from the first passing car, and hurried to the Jeep, scrambling inside and quickly started the engine.

He thrust the gear lever into reverse and roared out of the parking area, speeding out onto the coast road, cruising, up one lane of the highway, then turning around and cruising back down the other way, looking for any sign of Mackenzie Jarvis, but the road was empty of pedestrians, and there was no other traffic on the road in either direction.

She was gone, and he had no idea where, or how she had managed to get away so quickly.

She had simply melted into the shadows, like a specter.

He also had no idea where to find her, where she lived ….

_**What the hell was he going to do**_?

He couldn't go on driving around aimlessly all night, and he didn't know where to start looking for her.

He couldn't go home either.

_**Not yet.**_

_**Not like this.**_

No matter how hard he tried to appear to be calm and in control, Dominic would know that something was amiss.

He wasn't very good at hiding his true feelings, and Dom would take one look at him, and just _**know**_ that something awful had happened tonight, something momentous and life changing.

And he would have questions.

No doubt about it, Dominic Santini would have lots of questions.

Stringfellow Hawke knew that he couldn't face that.

At least not yet.

He needed time, alone, to think, to get him self under control, and to try to come to terms with what had just happened, and what he was feeling.

Right now, he was feeling pretty overwhelmed, trying to assimilate everything that had happened to him in the last hour or so, but it was just so big, so mind blowing, if he had had a whole lifetime to devote to trying to understand it, he would fail miserably.

It was just so ...

Out of left field!

So totally unexpected.

But not unwelcome.

So, his mother had been right all along.

_**You just never knew when love would come knocking at your door, and from the most unexpected and unlikely direction.**_

As this thought registered in his head, fighting for recognition amidst the myriad of other confusing thoughts running riot in his brain, Hawke felt hot tears scalding on his cheeks and his hands were suddenly sweating and shaking as he grasped the steering wheel of the Santini Air Jeep, with all his might, his heart banging rapidly against his rib cage and his mouth dry.

The Jeep veered drunkenly across the center line of the dark coast road, and Hawke knew that he had to stop, before he killed himself.

Blinking, fresh tears from his eyes, Hawke spotted a place to pull in off the road, safely, and he swerved the Jeep back across to the other lane and took the turn off, stomping on the brakes with all his might before finally coming to a screeching halt, just short of a cliff drop, churned up sand and dust and vegetation swirling up around the open Jeep.

_**Man, what the hell was wrong with him tonight!**_

He hadn't cried so much since St John had taken his precious ant farm, a school project that he had devoted himself to for months, and in a fit of jealous pique, had smashed it to the ground and then jumped all over the contents, calling his younger brother a 'stupid baby'.

The younger Hawke brother had been inconsolable for almost a week, and St John's loss of control, his sadistic cruelty towards his younger brother, had earned him the paddling of his life, but, more painful than any spanking, he had later confided to that same younger brother, had been the look off disappointment and disapproval on their parent's faces.

String hadn't thought about that incident in years, and even as the flicker of the memory flashed through his mind and a gentle smile touched his lips, albeit briefly, fresh tears were coursing down his cheeks.

_**What was he thinking?**_

_**Love?**_

_**How could that be?**_

How could he have fallen in love?

Fallen in love with Mackenzie Jarvis?

_**Love?**_

Yes. _**Love.**_

And why not?

Yes.

_**Why not?**_

It was the most real, most honest thing he had ever experienced, and just because she was the very last person that he might have expected to feel that way about, it didn't mean that it was wrong, a false emotion.

It hadn't even been something that he was conscious of.

Something that he could control.

It simply was.

Beautiful.

Unexpected, yes.

Unsolicited.

Yes, and that was what made it so incredible.

So mind blowing.

_**Awesome.**_

Like falling over a precipice.

A total rush.

A not unpleasant sensation.

On the contrary, euphoric.

He wanted to laugh out loud, to shout at the moon, to dance and jump up and down with joy.

So this was how it felt to be in love.

To_** really **_be in love.

To know with absolute certainty that he had found the woman of his dreams.

His soul mate.

To know that from the instant their lips met, their hearts beat as one, in harmony, their souls united for eternity across time and space, into infinity.

The perfect moment.

He _**knew**_, as surely as he knew that the sun would continue to rise and set, ad infinitum, he _**knew**_ in his heart that Mackenzie Jarvis had felt it too.

It had rocked her to her core too.

He had felt it, as a tangible thing.

He had seen it in her eyes, even as she had been pulling away from him, in that wretched moment when reality began to encroach.

And then, he had seen something else in her eyes, something that defied words, but which was guaranteed to break his heart.

And then, to top it all, accompanied by the vitriol pouring from Chip's foul mouth, he had seen disappointment and betrayal in her eyes.

And, he had let her walk away.

He had let her walk out of his life.

Because he was a fool.

Stupid and weak and clumsy.

It had all been there, his for the taking, he had seen it so clearly, felt it so keenly, tasted it, so sweetly.

There laid out before him, the dream of the bright and happy future he had always yearned for, made reality, and he had let it all go without a single word, without putting up so much as an ounce of fight or resistance.

All because of that unquantifiable _**something**_ that he had seen in Mackenzie Jarvis's eyes.

_**What kind of man was he?**_

That he had not offered to fight to keep something that beautiful, that precious, had lamely and dumbly just stood there and watched his wonderful happy future, filled with love and joy and hope, his soul mate, walking with such quiet dignity, right out of his life, without so much as a backward glance.

_**What kind of man was he? That he could do to that?**_

Certainly not the kind of man who was worthy of Mackenzie Jarvis's love.

Not any kind of man that he could comfortably live with for the rest of his life.

Not any kind of _**man**_ at all.

He was weak.

He was a coward.

He didn't deserve Mackenzie Jarvis.

Or, more to the point, she needed someone better than him, someone stronger, someone willing to ignore what other people thought or said, and was prepared to stand up for her, protect her and support her, because she was a beautiful human being and would do the same thing for him in a heartbeat, convention be damned!

In light of what had happened, Hawke knew that Mackenzie Jarvis had every right to be angry with him, to doubt his sincerity, to despise him.

She would probably never trust him again.

_**If, **_she could ever bring her self to speak to him again.

Ever bring her self to _**see**_ him again.

Would she ever be able to look at him with anything but contempt for him in her eyes?

Contempt, and pity.

He would not blame her.

Having experienced that one excruciatingly joyous moment of perfect love and bliss and peace, Hawke knew that it had slipped from his grasp, and he would never know anything like it in his life again.

A lost opportunity.

The most important opportunity he had ever been presented with and he had failed to recognise it.

He had failed to react.

Even if he could find Mackenzie, talk to her, try to explain, plead with her to believe him, beg her to trust him, to believe _**in**_ him, it would never be the same.

The moment had gone, never to be recaptured, and he had blown it.

By simply doing nothing at all.

Stunned by the power of his emotions, shocked to his very core by the sheer exhilaration, the purity and rightness of it, overwhelmed by his first taste of _**real **_love, he had let the moment of truth pass him by.

No matter how hard he tried, he would never get that back again.

It had been a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he had failed to respond.

And he had no-one to blame but himself.

At long last, drained emotionally and physically, Stringfellow Hawke drew in a long, calming breath and rubbed his hands over his tear streaked face, staring out into the inky blackness of the night sightlessly, unaware of time, his thoughts in turmoil as he tried to come to terms with all that he had learned this night.

Eventually awareness once again returned, and with it came the emptiness of a loss so profound, he wanted to curl up and die, but instead, he stared out over the cliff top, watching silvery, ghostly moonlight as it danced over the constantly moving ocean.

This was pointless.

Eating himself up like this, over what?

Take out the emotion and what was left?

_**Love?**_

_**Don't be crazy! **_

You can't fall in love with someone in one minute ….

_**It was just one kiss ….**_

One glorious, knee tremblingly, heart burstingly, beautiful, to die for kiss ….

_**But still just one kiss.**_

He had kissed other girls, and would no doubt kiss plenty more before his allotted time on this mortal coil was over.

_**So what was it about this girl, this kiss, that had been so unique?**_

And if it had been so momentous, so earth shatteringly special, why the hell was he sitting here wracked with shame and guilt and grief?

Why wasn't his soul mate here with him now? Sharing the joy? Marvelling in the miracle that had overcome them both?

If it had meant so much to her too, then why hadn't Mackenzie Jarvis stood her ground, brazened it out, why hadn't she demanded an explanation?

Why hadn't she demanded to know why he wasn't defending her honour, her reputation?

Why hadn't she just slapped his face and called him a louse?

Even that would have been better than her silent departure!

Yet, Stringfellow Hawke knew why, deep down in his own heart.

His silence must have seemed like more than a betrayal.

It must have seemed like a huge slap to her face.

To Mackenzie Jarvis it must have seemed like the ultimate denial.

What had she seen in his face?

Regret at what had happened?

Disgust, at his lack of self control?

Horrified realisation that in a moment of weakness, instantly regretted, when he had come back to his senses and realised what he was doing, who she was, that he had made a mistake, a terrible mistake that couldn't be taken back.

That he had acted on impulse …. Lost his head, and taken advantage of her vulnerability.

To Mackenzie Jarvis, it must have seemed like a deliberate act of cruelty, only proving that he was indeed, just like the others.

Mackenzie Jarvis should hate him.

He hated himself.

He was a monster.

He wasn't sure if he would be able to look at him self in the mirror ever again. How could he look at those perfect, chiselled, All American good looks reflected back at him, when inside he knew lived, no hid, a weak, cowardly bigot, who didn't have the guts to face up to the repercussions of his actions.

This night he had been forced to face up to some hard home truths about himself, and Stringfellow Hawke knew that he didn't like what he had seen. He knew that he didn't want to be _**that**_ kind of a man, reckless, acting on impulse, without a thought to the hurt and heartache he might be causing, simply taking what he wanted because it felt right, good, because he was a good looking guy.

He was better than that, or so he had thought.

From this moment on, he would make damned sure that he was indeed better than that, sensitive to and aware of other people's delicate egos and fragile emotions, aware that his every action had a repercussion, would affect someone else on levels that he could never comprehend, because he wasn't them, and didn't have their perspective.

By simply showing kindness and sympathy, by simply giving into an impulse to kiss Mackenzie Jarvis, he had touched her somewhere deep down in her psyche, had rocked her world by showing her something completely beyond her experience in life, that she was just like every other girl in the world, could be liked and desired, and could feel those things in return, and some how, he had hurt her, scared her, simply because he had no idea of how low her self image was, her self esteem.

He had the confidence of one who had always been beautiful and acceptable, had always known love, so he would never understand what it meant to be Mackenzie Jarvis, to feel ugly and fat and worthless, awkward, isolated, ridiculed and unacceptable, simply because she looked and sounded different.

If he was going to learn to be the kind of man he wanted to be, he was going to also have to learn that people didn't always see themselves in the same light as others saw them.

He saw himself as a good man, solid, reliable, sensitive, smart, cheerful, honest, just and yes, handsome, but he wasn't perfect, and maybe other people saw his flaws much more clearly than he did.

It was human nature to want to see the best in ourselves, but some times, life, and our experiences within it, cloud the way we see ourselves and instead of focusing on the good, and the positive, we think that other people can only see the flaws, and in the end, that is all we can see in ourselves.

Hawke understood that now.

Mackenzie Jarvis's self image had played a big part in what had happened tonight.

She had just been so convinced that she was unattractive and unworthy of his attention, of his affections, that when events and emotions had overcome them both, she was unable to accept that what they were both feeling could be real.

_**Why should someone like you want anythin**__**g to do with someone like me?**_

She had asked him out right, but he hadn't really understood what she had been asking, what she had been trying to tell him.

She didn't feel good about herself, saw herself as something less than human, and if she couldn't like herself, then how could any one else?

When all she had heard most every day, from all her peers, was that she _**was**_ ugly and fat and worthless, and she had no other opinion to counter balance that, no wonder she believed it.

Tell a person often enough that they are dumb, if that is all that they hear, day in day out, they have no choice but to believe it.

A matter of opinion, but one that could make all the difference to a life.

To how a person approached life.

He came from a world that was full of light and love, secure and confident about him self and what and who he was, but Mackenzie Jarvis's world must be a very dark and lonely place.

As he analyzed his thoughts now, Stringfellow Hawke realised that if he was really going to be the kind of man he wanted to be, the kind of man he could live with and respect, he was going to have to be more sensitive to his fellow man, and learn to see the world through new eyes, and to do that, he was going to have to learn to be more in tune with his own feelings, and that if that meant expressing them from time to time, then so be it.

Another lesson Mackenzie Jarvis had taught him.

Another gift.

If he was going to be a real man, he was going to have to accept that there were times when those emotions needed to find release.

If something touched him that deeply, moved him that strongly, then he should not feel ashamed to show it.

It all boiled down to honesty.

Honesty about what he was really thinking and feeling, exposed so that everyone could deal with them, because kept locked away inside him, they would only fester, until he could no longer control them, or his actions, and he would end up in serious trouble, one way or another.

Miserably, he stared out over the moonlit ocean and wished that Mackenzie Jarvis was there with him, so that he could tell her, honestly, what this night had meant to him, what she had meant to him, and what his true feelings were, and dragging in a long, deep breath, Stringfellow Hawke acknowledged the honesty of what had passed between them earlier, savoured the warmth and the joy and the peace that filled his heart once more, and made a silent vow to the moon, that the very first chance he got, he would find Mack and talk to her, make her listen, make her understand, make her believe in him again, beg her to take a chance with him, because the rewards would be amazing, because he had been granted a glimpse of something very rare and precious, and he couldn't, wouldn't let it slip away without a fight.

They both deserved a chance to see where it might lead, what they might make of it, together.

Together they were strong.

Together they could face anything.

They were meant for each other.

Fighting it, denying it, would only make them both miserable.

Fate had brought them together in the most unexpected way, and Stringfellow Hawke wasn't about to allow his childish stupidity to keep them apart.

He would make it right.

He just had to.

His future happiness depended on it.

He would never give up trying, not until she saw the light, and accepted the simple truth of it.

He had fallen in love with her.

Wasn't it only right that he have the chance to show her, to prove it to her?

He had no more control over who he fell in love with and who he didn't than he had control over the universe it's self.

His heart had decreed that it would be Mackenzie Jarvis, and now that his heart had decided, he would go on loving her until the day he died.

They were one soul now, united by an innocent kiss.

He would make her see that he was right, and be happy to spend the rest of his life proving to her that she was the only girl for him.

The decision made, Stringfellow Hawke pulled himself together and slowly drove the Jeep home, half hoping that he would see Mackenzie Jarvis somewhere along the way, but she was nowhere to be found.

Back home, lying on his small bed, sleep was a long time in claiming him, but when at last he did succumb, for the first time since he had been shot down in that steaming Asian hellhole, since he had heard the devastating news that St John hadn't been picked up and returned to base, his slumber was not punctuated by deafening explosions and his own pathetic screams, but instead, was filled with vividly real pictures of a happy, contented future, full of love and joy and hope, with Mackenzie Jarvis right there at his side.


	5. Chapter 5

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.

Chapter Five

The next morning, when he rose from his bed, Stringfellow Hawke felt like a new man, and quickly agreed to accompany Dominic Santini to the hangar to help out.

He worked willingly and diligently all that Saturday, cheerful and industrious and with good humour and attention to detail, taking pride in what he was doing, always ready with a smile when he noticed the strange looks Dom was aiming in his direction, knowing that he had been right about Dominic's uncanny ability to read his moods, and recognizing that there was something different about him.

Hawke felt different.

He felt more mature.

He liked working on the aircraft in the hangar, taking the responsibility on his shoulders, and finding that it gave him great satisfaction to do the job well and great pleasure to receive the simplest of praises from Dom for a job well done.

He found himself hoping that what Dominic Santini was seeing from him today was a more positive and mature attitude, and that he would see that at long last, the young man had finally grown up.

Driving home last night, Hawke had made a firm decision.

If he couldn't find Mack, then he would wait for her to come to him.

At least that had been his grand plan.

The one solid piece of reliable information that she had imparted about her self last night had been that she helped Dom out with his paper work. Hawke would wait for her to show up at the hangar, and then find some way to get her to talk to him.

Finally, at the end of a long, but surprisingly satisfying and enjoyable day of hard work in the hangar, Stringfellow Hawke finally plucked up the courage to ask Dominic Santini the question that had been burning in his mind for most of the day.

The older man was seated at his work bench, baseball cap pulled back off his brow as he peered myopically into the magnifying lens poised over the work bench as he turned a filthy carburettor around in the bright light of the spotlight over the bench, only to find a minute crack in the casing.

"Dom …."

"Yeah, kid?" Santini responded somewhat distractedly, then looked up from the carburettor to find the young Hawke frowning as he picked up the diary. "Something wrong?" he asked, wondering if the young man had spotted a double booking in the diary, or if he was worried about the lack of work they had on the books.

"No. I was just curious about how the business is doing …."

"Seeing as how you have all your pocket money invested in it, I suppose?" Santini rolled his eyes skyward in exasperation.

He knew that he wasn't the world's best business man, and he lurched from one financial disaster to another, yet somehow, he had always managed to make enough money to stay afloat, and keep the wolf from the door.

In recent months, things had begun to look up. There was a little more work from movies and TV coming his way, not always stunt work, sometimes it just involved ferrying executives around from one location to another, but it was all money in the bank, and he was getting recognition from all the big studios.

Santini saw it as laying down the ground work for future business, because he was sure that some day soon, Hollywood was going to go nuts about making movies with choppers in them, and he was damned sure that he was going to be first in line when they started dolling out the contracts.

He also had plenty of maintenance and restoration work coming through the hangar, and the freight side of the business was also ticking over just nicely, and he made up for slack periods giving the odd lesson.

All in all his business was reasonably healthy, and if he were honest, Santini knew that he couldn't cope with much more work, at least not single handedly.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it, String. I ain't about to go broke, just yet. In fact, things are looking up," he smiled reassuringly at the young man. "I have more than enough to keep my busy, and it's amazing how much the grocery bill has gone down, since the Army took responsibility for feeding you three square meals a day!" he chuckled.

"Dom, if you were ever stuck …. There's money there. Please use it," the young Hawke grew serious now.

"Your Dad left that money for you and your brother, to go to college, set yourselves up in business, whatever you might need or want it for," Santini reminded now.

"I know that Dom, but …."

"I told you already, the business is fine. Your investment is safe."

"Ok, that's great, Dom, really. I just wanted you to know."

"I know, kid." But his tone of voice told the young man that it would be a very cold day in hell before he would even consider touching a dime of the Hawke brother's inheritance.

"Something else on your mind?" Santini asked now as he regarded the younger man flicking through the diary again.

"Well …."

"C'mon kid, what's really on your mind?"

"Well …." Hawke faltered.

"I got that the first time around," Santini sighed. "Nice to know the American education system turns out such eloquence, in its students," he chuckled then at the sour look that crossed the youth's face.

"Spit it out kid," Santini invited, suspecting that he already knew that the young man had spotted the unfamiliar hand writing, both in the diary, and on some of the quotations and manifests in the back office, and was wondering how he could afford to pay someone else.

"Dom, do you have someone else helping out around here? Only I saw …."

"Yeah, kid. You saw the flowery, girly hand writing and wondered if the old man had gone loco?" Santini smirked. "Settle down, String, I ain't so broke I can't afford a few dollars now and again to get things straightened out. Sweet kid called Mackenzie Jarvis comes by now and again to help me when I get snowed under with paper. You may know her …."

"Mackenzie Jarvis? From my old High School?"

"One and the same," Santini grinned, revealing the small gap between his top front teeth. "Nice kid," Coming from Dominic Santini, that was high praise indeed.

"So how often does she come by?"

"Now and again. She used to come by the odd weekend, or weeknight, but she's in college now, and her workload was getting bigger," Santini sighed, a look of regret on his face. "But she's been by a couple of times during this vacation. Why so curious?"

"No reason. Is she interested in flying?"

"Did you ever ask her?"

"No …."

"Well, there you go then. I'll just bet there are a lot of things about that gal you don't know," Santini smothered a grin now.

"Like what?"

"You'd be surprised. And you can ask her yourself, on Wednesday."

"Maybe. If I'm around," Hawke shrugged nonchalantly, but was elated to hear that she would be coming to the hangar so soon.

"Oh, yeah, well, of course, that's what I meant. _**If**_ you're around," Santini smirked again. "Never know kid, you might learn something. But only if you're around, of course!"

Santini, still grinning, returned his attention to the carburettor, and didn't see the gentle smile that briefly touched Stringfellow Hawke's lips.

"Give me five more minutes with this thing, then I'll be ready to shut up shop," Santini spoke as he once again scrutinized the carburettor. "Sunday tomorrow, kid. Got any grand plans?" he asked distractedly, half expecting the young man to say that he had made arrangements to meet up with his pals, for one last chance to party before they had to go back to school and he had to report back to the Army.

"Actually, Dom, if it's ok with you, I'd like to go to church."

Even as he uttered the words, Hawke felt a pang of excitement, recalling now that Mack had told him that she attended the same church as Dominic. Maybe he would have a chance to see her again before she showed up to work on Wednesday?

His heart skipped a beat at the prospect and he quickly had to pull himself together, not wanting Dominic to see the dreamy, lovelorn expression he was sure was now on his face.

The request immediately drew Dominic Santini's gaze back up from the carburettor, to scrutinize the young man's face, finding a serious, earnest expression on his familiar, handsome features, and sincerity in his deep blue eyes.

Santini could empathise with the younger man's need to converse with the man 'upstairs' indeed, he had more than a few choice words to say to him himself, and so he nodded softly, and kept his thoughts to himself about the reason why the younger man suddenly felt the need for a little spiritual sustenance.

"Ok," he let out a gentle sigh as he pushed away the huge magnifying lens once more and scratched absently at his right earlobe with an oil smeared finger. "So, if we're gonna be all virtuous tomorrow, how about sinking a couple of beers with an old geezer tonight?" he suggested.

"Sure, I'll go with you Dom, but I'll stick to Coke, if that's OK with you."

Although he was surprised, Dominic Santini wisely kept his thoughts to himself, liking this new more relaxed and even tempered Stringfellow Hawke to the dour, surly young fellow who had fetched up on his doorstep a couple of weeks ago.

He didn't know what had happened to cause this sudden transformation, but he applauded it, welcomed it, and intended to savour every precious moment of it along with the young man's company, while he had the chance. He would be gone, back to that horrific place, soon enough, and who knew what he would be like when he came back the next time ….

_**If he came back ….**_

How changed he might be by the horrors he would be forced to witness …. Participate in ….

Any time that they could spend together was precious to Dominic Santini.

Who knew what the future might hold, and while he tried not to think about it, dwell on it, Dominic Santini knew that the possibility that something awful might happen to the young man was very real, especially in light of what had happened to St John ….

It was war, not the school yard that String would be going back to, and Santini had seen enough war of his own to know the risks and the odds.

He was so proud of both young men, but that didn't stop him worrying over them, or fearing for them.

He understood the need for both of them to follow their consciences, to do what they believed was right.

Understood, yes, but he didn't have to like it.

String had to go back. There was no getting out of it, even if the young man had been so inclined, and there was even less of a chance of that happening now that St John was missing over there.

All Santini could do was try to keep things as normal and sane as he possibly could for the young man while he was home, be ready to listen when he wanted to off load, ready to catch him, if he fell, and savour every precious second of every minute that he was home, for when he returned to the Army, who knew when he would be home on leave again.

They spent Sunday quietly together, just the two of them, Church first, then feeling fortified and uplifted, despite a pang of disappointment when Hawke did not see Mackenzie Jarvis in the congregation, they had gone to their favourite restaurant for lunch, String insisting on treating Dom to the works, and then they had spent a lazy afternoon, resting full, contented stomachs, slouching on the couch and arm chair in Dom's small living room, watching a movie on TV.

Monday had seen String up bright and early to run a few errands before joining Dominic Santini at the hangar, and they had spent the rest of the day teasing and laughing and kidding around as they ploughed through a backlog of work.

Tuesday came and went pretty much like Monday, but there had been something about the young man's attitude that had made Santini suspect that he was waiting for something special, something important, and, he also noted, as the day wore on, the young man seemed to be a little more clumsy, tripping over his own big feet and dropping tools and parts on the floor at regular intervals.

Wednesday came at last, and the first thing that Dominic Santini did was despatch the young man to collect a fresh supply of film from their supplier across town, as he had been commissioned to shoot a couple of short aerial sequences for one of the studios, the following week. They were building up their stock footage and they wanted several sequences shot from a helicopter, over flying various locations around LA and the coast.

When Santini had checked his stock of film, he had discovered that the last reel in the store room had somehow been exposed to water, the leaking roof he had been meaning to fix but hadn't gotten around to, and so now it was imperative that he get fresh stocks so that he could fulfil his obligation to the studio.

Disappointed, and in the mood to let Santini know it, the young man made it obvious that he did not want to drive across town, and Santini was even more convinced that the young man was expecting something to happen today, that he had a much stronger agenda for wanting to stay at the hangar than getting his hands covered in grease and oil as he worked on the brake system of an old Tiger Moth they were renovating, and Santini suspected that her name was Mackenzie Jarvis.

Grudgingly, Hawke took the Jeep and much to Santini's amusement, must have broken all the city's speed limits to get there and back again in time for when Mackenzie Jarvis was due to arrive, however, all his efforts were wasted, for while the young man had been out, the young lady in question had called Dominic Santini to say that she would not be coming by.

"What!" Hawke snarled when Santini broke the news, and watched with alarm as the color drained from the young man's handsome face. "Did she say why?" He demanded, suddenly anxious that she might be sick.

"Got behind with some project for college," Santini told him, shrugging absently, wondering why it was such a big deal. "What could I say, it's her education …."

"Did she say when she'd be coming in?"

"No."

"No?"

"Hey, don't look at me, kid, I don't know!" Santini grumbled. "What's it to you, anyway?"

"Nothing!" Hawke snarled, then stalked across the hangar to resume work on the bi-plane and shortly thereafter, Santini was startled by the clatter and clang of tools and parts as they hit the ground with considerable force, one after the other with a loud, metallic ring.

"Uh oh …." Santini sensed a change in the weather, but could not help smirking to himself at the young man's antics.

He wasn't so old that he couldn't remember how it felt.

Some things would never change.

Guys and girls.

And the frustration and exhilaration that went along with mixing the two together!

_**Amore.**_

However, Dominic Santini hadn't even been aware that his young friend had even had Mack Jarvis on his radar!

_**Oh well ….**_

It had been nice, while it had lasted, but, now it appeared that normal service had been resumed, as the day went on, the young man's mood grew dark, his temper less sweet and his language, fruity to say the least.

"Hey! Hold it down to a dull roar over there!" Santini bellowed at Hawke, covering the mouthpiece of the telephone, unable to hear what the caller was saying. "I can't hear myself think!"

He was rewarded with another burst of angry expletives, followed by a not unexpected howl of pain as Hawke either jammed his fingers inside the engine, or struck them with a hammer or some such.

"String, dammit, do us all a favor, will ya, go take a hike, and cool your burners!" Santini advised. "What's gotten into you anyway! I didn't know you knew Mackenzie Jarvis that well!"

The scowl that the young man aimed in his direction as he stormed out of the hangar, would have dissolved lead, Santini found himself thinking, less amused by the display of bad humour from his young friend than he had been a few hours before, and he found himself wondering how long this was going to go on, as he forced himself to return his attention to the caller on the other end of the line.

_**Indeed, some things would never change.**_

_**Back to square one.**_

At the end of the day, Stringfellow Hawke returned to the hangar, shame faced, and apologetic for his bad temper and his walking off the job, then spent half an hour cleaning up after his tantrum and closing the hangar down the for the night, while Dominic Santini watched him with open curiosity, unable to miss the haunted look in his eyes ….

Eyes which, he also noted, hinted that the young man had perhaps been crying, but again Santini kept his thoughts to himself, wondering if the young man would ever tell him what had gotten him so wound up.

Dominic Santini never did find out, for Stringfellow Hawke had quickly gotten his emotions back under control, and while it was plain to see that something was troubling him, he made no effort to share his troubles with Dominic Santini, and the older man knew better than to poke his nose in where it didn't belong.

For the remainder of his leave, Hawke was polite and hard working, responding when spoken to, but not inclined to start a conversation. He was solemn and withdrawn, closing himself off, and the ready smile he had flashed around so quickly just a few short days before had gone, all of which made Santini's heart ache, for he had so enjoyed having the affable, quick witted and sweet tempered young man around him once more.

It made him wonder just what had gone on, that the young man wouldn't, or couldn't share with him, and how it was connected with Mackenzie Jarvis.

He was destined never to find out, for the young man never mentioned her name again, and much to his surprise and disappointment, Dominic Santini never saw her, or heard from her again either.

Life had gone on, as it had to.

And, pretty much as he expected, every time the young man came home, Stringfellow Hawke had changed, just a little, growing quieter, more insulated, shut off and shutting down emotionally as he tried to disconnect himself from the horrors of the war, hardening his heart and withdrawing deep inside himself, but to Dominic Santini, the greatest change of all had happened after that Christmas, 1969, when for the first time, he had seen the maturity of the young man, the poise and willingness to shoulder responsibility, the positive character traits that would make him the man that Dominic Santini was so proud of.

The first time that he realised that the young man had finally grown up.

The reason it stuck in Santini's mind was because it was the last time he saw real joy and hope and expectation in the young man's eyes.

After Vietnam, those things were gone from Stringfellow Hawke's eyes forever.


	6. Chapter 6

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.

Chapter Six.

A loud clatter and a roar of frustration from the hangar brought Stringfellow Hawke abruptly out of his reverie and he let out a deep, shoulder raising sigh as he realised that the disturbance had come from Dom, whom it appeared had dropped a carton of film canisters that had been delivered earlier that morning.

He had no idea how long he had been lost in remembrances, but he knew that it had been a pointless exercise, leaving him with a knot of tension in his stomach and a tight, clenched fist of emotion lodged in his chest.

Not to mention moisture lurking at the corners of his eyes.

He had lost so much that night.

Friendships that he had thought would last a lifetime, the innocence of childhood and the picture that he had in his mind of whom and what he was, and how the world perceived him, but none of it was so hard to bear as losing her.

Mackenzie Jarvis.

He hadn't said her name in oh so long.

He hadn't allowed his memory to call to mind the image of her face, except when he was dreaming, and he had no control over his memories, or the way his body reacted to them ….

It had taken a very long time to get her out of his head, to make himself forget, and yet it now seemed that he hadn't been as successful as he had believed, the memories never very far from the surface, just as his feelings for her had never mellowed, never left his heart, had colored and defined every relationship that he had had with a woman ever since.

She hadn't been the first to abandon him, but her leaving him had been the hardest to bear, harder even than losing his mother, or St John.

It had reinforced his belief that he was not meant to find happiness in love, for every woman that he had ever dared to care for, had left him, one way or another.

Even now, after years of avoiding anything more than just platonic friendships, or the briefest of affairs, always guarding his heart, ensuring that it was never again in danger of being exposed, damaged, he had met a woman who had wormed her way under his defenses and into his heart.

Gabrielle.

Only to lose her too, to violence and hatred and malicious revenge.

It was always going to be that way, Hawke knew it, because he had been stupid enough to allow his one and only chance for true happiness to simply walk out of his life, taking with her his heart, and any chance he might have of making a happy life with any other woman in the future.

Mackenzie Jarvis.

His one true love.

He felt the disappointment and frustration and sorrow as deeply now as he had that day almost fifteen years ago, when she had failed to show up to help out Dominic Santini, and the young Stringfellow Hawke had realised that she had done so deliberately, so as to avoid the possibility of seeing him.

He should have taken the hint then, but he hadn't been able to leave things alone, and so had chased all over town trying to find her, but it was as if Mackenzie Jarvis had never existed.

No-one knew where she lived, or where she hung out or if she had any friends at all that he could approach to find out if she was alright.

Which had only made the young man feel even more regret, for the way that he and his so called friends had treated her.

How could they have been so cruel? So callous? So cold hearted?

Everywhere he went he ran into a dead end, or a brick wall.

It was as if Fate herself was conspiring to support Mackenzie's decision to avoid him.

It was as if she had simply evaporated, and shortly thereafter, he had been forced to return to the Army, and Vietnam, with no hope that he would ever find her again.

Over the years, he had made enquiries about her, but no-one seemed to remember her, and no-one had any idea what she had done once school was through.

She was gone, and he had no choice but to face a life without her.

A life so full of regrets.

Regret for his foolish inability to react to a once in a lifetime opportunity, regret that the simple action of stealing a kiss, such a tender, sweet, soul moving kiss, had caused Mackenzie Jarvis so much hurt, made her bolt and bury herself so deeply, he would never be able to find her, regret that he would never have the chance to face her and explain to her, to apologise to her, to set the record straight, regret that for the rest of her life, Mackenzie Jarvis would only remember the callow, selfish youth who had assumed that he had the right to just take something as precious as a first kiss, regret that he would never be allowed to make good on the promise of that precious kiss, and regret that he had damaged and shamed her so deeply she had seen no other option but to disappear off the face of the earth.

Yet, he felt other things too.

Anger.

Yes, he was angry that in running away, losing herself, she had denied both of them the chance to fulfil the promise of that kiss.

They had shared the experience, felt the same things, and they both deserved the chance to at least see where it might lead, but she had effectively destroyed that by cutting him out of her life, permanently.

By running away, refusing to face him, she had turned something beautiful and meaningful into something shameful and dirty, something so honest and pure into something degrading and disgusting, turned his love to hatred, briefly, and his self belief and his inner peace into self loathing.

With time, he had come to terms with his feelings, resolved his own personal issues, after all, he knew how he felt about that night, but he could only speculate about what it had truly meant to Mackenzie Jarvis, and as he grew older, and learned more about himself, and the world, he came to understand that with the impetuosity of youth, he had probably over reacted, blown everything out of proportion, caught up in the wonder of the moment.

Still the regret remained, because he had been denied the opportunity to follow through, to see where it might lead, to work it out to its natural conclusion, whatever that might have been.

Left only with a sour taste, and one more 'might have been' to add to the ever growing list.

The only regret he did not have was that it had happened at all.

There were many aspects of that night that he was glad had happened, after all, he had learned much about himself and what he wanted for himself, that night, and he had learned to be cautious when dealing with other people, for their egos and emotions were fragile things that could easily be damaged.

He had learned to never take anything for granted any more, and he had learned to treasure the simple things in life that afforded him at least a little peace and happiness, for love and life were transient things and could be lost just as easily as they were discovered.

He was a better man for the events of that night, and for that he would always love Mackenzie Jarvis.

He glanced down at the torn fragments of the invitation in the waste paper basket and fleetingly wondered if she had received one too, and by some miracle, she was sitting some place right now, remembering that night and wondering about the kind of man he had become, if she was debating with herself the wisdom in going back, and he knew that it didn't matter, for he would not be attending the reunion.

What he had said to Dominic, about going back, about not being able to recapture the moment, was true.

It was in the past.

A perfect moment, captured in his memory for all eternity, and he wanted nothing to tarnish it, pollute it, taint it, he wanted to keep it, just the way it was, for no matter what, it had made him the man that he was today, comfortable with whom and what he was, and able to live with the tough choices that he had to make, and their consequences.

One of those choices being that there was no room in his life for love.

He could not commit himself, or his heart to anyone.

Not now.

The path that he had chosen was one that was best traveled alone.

He had but one purpose, one goal, to get St John back, and in the pursuit of that goal, his life was too fraught, full of danger and peril and he would not involve an innocent in that, he would not risk the life of another woman he loved and whom might be moved to love him in return, put her in the line of fire, because of his obsession.

He wouldn't trade St John's life for the life of another woman that he loved.

Better to avoid even the possibility of getting involved in a relationship.

He was better off alone.


	7. Chapter 7

"So, ya wanna fill me in, String

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters__._

Chapter Seven

Summer, 1984.

"So, ya wanna fill me in, String?" Dominic Santini turned slightly in the passenger seat of the Santini Air Jeep and regarded his young companion, who was occupying the driver's seat, his features set in a scowl, as he reached out to turn off the Jeep's engine.

"Wanna tell me why we're here?" Santini's large, gnarled old hand made a sweeping gesture around the parking lot and toward the sprawling complex of buildings that was Knightsbridge, the headquarters of The Firm, and continued to regard the younger man expectantly.

Stringfellow Hawke let out a deep sigh.

"I know as much as you do, Dom," he gave the older man an apologetic shrug.

"Oh boy, if that's true, then we're both in big trouble, kid!" Santini threw his companion a gap-toothed smile now, and Hawke managed to raise a weak smile in response.

Dominic Santini hadn't quite worked out the younger man's mood.

Hawke had been subdued and withdrawn since the arrival of that wretched High School Reunion invitation, but, as usual, the young man refused to talk about what was on his mind, and Santini knew him well enough not to push him about it.

Dominic Santini also knew that this was different.

It wasn't just the younger man's usual inclination to melancholy, brooding, for crawling deep inside him self to punish himself over things he couldn't change.

This was serious.

Usually Hawke's dark, foreboding moods would last for a couple of days, long, dark, miserable days when he would be uncommunicative and unresponsive, working as though on autopilot so lost in his own world of misery and pain, immersed in the world of self destructive, dark, isolation, but then, just as suddenly as it had started, he would snap out of it, and things would go back to the status quo that Dominic Santini much preferred.

This had been going on for almost two weeks now, and Santini was getting more and more concerned for his young friend and growing weary of keeping his thoughts to himself.

The hardest thing for Santini to deal with was the silence, which, over the years he had gotten into the habit of over compensating for, by talking too much and too loudly, about anything and nothing.

It also frustrated him, and disappointed him, that the young man simply couldn't find it in him to confide in his old friend.

_**Some things never changed**_.

"So? Just got the summons, huh?" Hawke nodded in response now. "And here we are."

"And here we are."

"I wonder what Archangel has up his sleeve for us now?"

"I guess we'll soon find out."

Stringfellow Hawke could not fail to miss the concerned expression on his old friend's face, as they alighted from the Jeep, but was grateful that the old man had stopped asking him if he was alright.

He also deeply appreciated the fact that for once, Dom had acquiesced to his request to lay off him about attending the High School Reunion and had let the matter drop, at least for now.

Archangel's call had come as a welcome relief, something else for Hawke to think about other than his bad choices in life and regrets over the road not chosen, and Hawke knew that he would welcome the physical challenge of a mission in Airwolf right now too.

What he needed to drive away the demons was a good shot of adrenalin, something to focus his mind and make his blood rush through his veins with excitement and exhilaration.

The call had also piqued his curiosity, for up until now, Archangel had come calling on him at the hangar, or up at his cabin at Eagle Lake, when he wanted to discuss a mission with him.

The request that he and Dominic come out to Knightsbridge was unusual in its self, and Hawke had found himself wondering just what it was that Archangel wanted from them this time around.

"Ah, gentlemen, good of you to come," Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, code name, Archangel, greeted Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini with a weak smile as both men were shown into his office, and waited for them both to take a seat and settle themselves.

"What ya got?" Hawke drawled wearily, as he regarded Archangel with a critical eye.

Coldsmith Briggs was older than him self by a good ten years and had a penchant for dressing from head to toe in white, which had always seemed to Hawke to be completely impractical for a spy, especially from a laundry point of view.

Today he was wearing white trousers with a crisp crease down the front of each leg, a thick white cable-knit patterned sweater over a crisp, and no doubt starched to within an inch of its life, white shirt, white shoes and socks, but no hat.

There was not so much as a hair out of place, although Hawke could clearly see the fine lines of weariness etched into Archangel's brow and at the corners of his eyes, and his complexion was a little sallow, indicating that he hadn't slept, or been out in the sunshine for a while.

Something was afoot.

Hawke felt a rush of excitement and anticipation as he waited for Archangel to explain the reason for their being called to Knightsbridge.

When the Deputy Director of Special Projects for The Firm did not immediately respond, Hawke and Santini exchanged quick, speculative glances.

"Michael?" Hawke prompted now, suddenly getting a feeling of deep unease in the pit of his stomach. The government man wasn't usually so reticent about imparting the details of the work that they would be required to do for him, no matter how distasteful.

"Just how bad can it be?" Hawke arched an eyebrow curiously, while Dominic Santini fidgeted in his seat, obviously feeling equally as ill at ease as his younger companion.

"I'm a little wary of you reaction," Archangel confessed. "What I have to put to you is not your ordinary Airwolf mission."

"Is there such a thing?" Hawke countered. "You've had us doing all kinds of stuff," he pointed out succinctly. "I would say that that proves how versatile we and Airwolf are. So?"

"This mission is different, in so much as the time frame," Archangel let out a deep sigh. "This is going to require more than just a few hours of your time."

Again Hawke and Santini exchanged speculative glances, unsure if this was a good development, or not.

"I need your complete and undivided attention, indefinitely."

Now Stringfellow Hawke understood Archangel's reticence.

He was aware of Dominic's business commitments, but he was also aware that although it wasn't impossible, Hawke much preferred not to have to handle Airwolf missions alone.

The magnificent Mach 1 Super Helicopter had been designed to be manned by three crew members. Hawke and Santini managed, at a push, but there was no way that Hawke could handle everything alone.

It took all his physical strength to keep the aircraft under control, and all his concentration to fly her, besides which his control console was not geared up to allow him access to the scanning systems and some of the weaponry had to be armed from the rear engineering compartment by the engineer, Dominic Santini's role in their crew.

Hawke was a brilliant pilot, but even he needed someone to keep him apprised of what was going on around them, fundamentally, to act as his eyes and ears while he concentrated on keeping the machine in the air.

Hawke hadn't checked the Santini Air diary for a while, and had no idea how much, or how little work there was scheduled for the next few weeks.

Personally, Hawke had a clear slate, his time was basically his own to do with as he pleased, work or not work, stay up at the cabin to fish, or brood, or join Dom for a stunt job, or to tinker with some wonderful old engine in the hangar, and Archangel knew this, but, Stringfellow Hawke could not speak for Dominic Santini and his commitments at Santini Air.

Hawke suspected that he knew what Archangel's next question would be.

"I'm sorry to have to ask, Dominic, but what is your work load like at Santini Air?" Archangel fixed his one good, grey eye on Dominic Santini now, and Hawke watched as the older man's usually jovial expression immediately slid into a frown, which was then followed, almost immediately by a look of irritation.

"Business is just fine, thank you very much!" Santini bristled, and Stringfellow Hawke watched the older man's hackles rise, with a heavy heart.

Obviously Dom hadn't quite cottoned on to the reason for the government agent's question.

Hawke was relieved to see that the moustachioed government man maintained a neutral expression as he awaited Dom's answer, but could not stop himself from wondering what it was about the two men that found them constantly needing to get a rise out of each other.

"Dom," Hawke growled and threw the older man a warning look, hoping that he would understand that they needed to hear Archangel out. He wanted to know what was on the table.

Santini clamped his mouth shut when he saw the look on Hawke's face, drawing in a deep, calming breath and offering the younger man a look of apology, letting Hawke know that he was sorry for losing his head and that as always, he was happy to defer to him, after all, when it came down to matters pertaining to Airwolf, he was in charge.

"Ok, Michael, cut to the chase," Hawke returned his attention to Archangel now. "The sooner we know the details, the sooner Dom can decide if he wants in, or not. I can't and won't speak for him, where Santini Air is concerned."

"And whatever the hell it is, I ain't letting you go alone!" Santini interjected, giving the younger man a look that brooked no argument. "Business is business, sure, but I love my country too, and if String needs back up," his voice trailed away as he noted the sour look on the young man's face. "And don't you look at me like that. We're in this together," Santini reminded.

"We are all aware of your loyalty, and devotion, Dominic, but none of us want you to suffer personally, or professionally …."

"Michael, just spit it out!" Hawke and Santini spoke in unison, then exchanged gentle, wry smiles, glad to be back on the same wavelength.

"It takes as long as it takes, and my business is just that, my business. I learned a long time ago that I can't be in two places at once," Santini added for good measure.

"Fair enough."

"So, shoot," Hawke invited now, crossing one ankle over the other knee, making him self comfortable in his seat, suspecting that he and Dominic were going to be here for quite some time.

"Ok. So tell me, how well versed are you in the current political climate in Africa?"

"Geez Michael, if you hadn't noticed, Africa's a big continent."

"And we got to see quite a chunk of it a few months back," Hawke reminded, alluding to a previous mission in Limbawe.

"I thought everything was going ok there? The coalition …." This from Dominic Santini now, who recalled that particular mission with something less than fondness.

Hawke had gotten shot, and had come face to face with an old friend, who had gone to his death uttering the confession that he knew where St John Hawke was, leaving String to live with the uncertainty for the rest of his life.

"As far as I am aware, that is still the case," Archangel sighed. "But you know how it goes, you square away one tin pot, power hungry dictator with ideas above his station, and another one crawls out of the swamp, or the jungle, wanting to step into his shoes," he scratched absently at his left eyebrow as he spoke. "It's hard to keep track of the who's and the where's, right?"

"Right," Santini agreed with a frown.

"So, who and where?" Hawke asked, knowing that he was going to regret asking.

"Kembala."

"Never heard of it," Santini confessed. "Or him," he amended, not sure if it was a place or a person.

"Well, that's what they're calling it this month. Anyone's guess what they might end up calling it next month, except that it has a strong possibility of ending in Grad, or Sky or Ov …."

"Beg pardon?" Santini continued to frown.

"Russia, Dom," Hawke sighed deeply. "That is what you're saying, isn't it, Michael? That for whatever reason, the Soviets are interested in this Kembala place?"

"Correct."

"But why?" this from Dominic Santini now.

"Good question, especially when you discover that this place is a melting pot, politically, and that there have been more coups than there are stars in the sky, in the past couple of years. Power changes hands more often than you and I change our underwear. President's residence must have a revolving front door! It's enough to make your head spin!"

Archangel managed a wry smile now too, finding this audience with Hawke and Santini much easier now that he had gotten the distasteful task of making the opening pitch out of the way.

"So what's different this time?"

"Well, about two presidents ago, that's theirs not ours, by the by, some enterprising bright spark discovered Uranium ore, and once the Russians got wind of it, they decided that the easiest way to get their mitts on it, without causing a huge stink, was to back another coup. To that end they financed one General Joshua Mendofa …."

"Uranium?" This from Dominic Santini, his tone incredulous.

"So, let me guess, when our side heard about the Uranium, we decide to back the other guy, right?" Stringfellow Hawke drawled on a deep sigh, ignoring Santini.

"Right," Archangel confirmed.

"And you need us, because our side got its ass whooped!"

"Correct."

"You want us to do what, exactly?"

"One of the first things that General Mendofa did when he came to power was to arrest the opposition leader, our guy, Robert Nimbani …."

"And you want us to go in and fish him out?" Dominic Santini rolled his eyes heavenward.

"How can you even be sure that this General Mendofa didn't just have Nimbani killed?"

"Latest Intel, for one thing, but, it's way too risky. Robert Nimbani has some powerful allies in the region. Besides, no matter how much the Russians might want to get their hands on that Uranium, they want to avoid an international scandal even more," Archangel explained reasonably.

"Robert Nimbani is very popular amongst his own people. It is almost certain that if the Russian's hadn't intervened, Nimbani would have won a landslide victory at the polls, one that would have been welcomed and endorsed by almost all the other African leaders, so, Uranium and Russians aside, we would have backed Nimbani, because he happens to represent the best shot Kembala has to making it as an independent nation. The Russians have too much to lose in allowing Mendofa to kill his rival out of pique. He needs him alive, so that he can negotiate with the other African leaders, keep them on side, after all, Kembala has borders, and neighbors, and the Russians need to keep them sweet so that they can get their people in and the Uranium out."

"So tell me, Michael, if this Nimbani fella is so well liked, how come his own people haven't tried to liberate him?"

"They have. Twice," Archangel sighed deeply now.

"And I take it; it didn't have a happy ever after ending?" Hawke drawled sarcastically.

"Only forced Mendofa to increase the security on Nimbani. Moved him to a remote location and placed a whole regiment of his own armed forces there to guard him."

Dominic Santini let out a soft whistle through his teeth.

"However, they are nothing if not persistent," Archangel smiled. "They are in the process of preparing another attempt, and their leader, Nimbani's second in command, approached us to assist them, because they're enemies are our enemies, and they knew that they couldn't succeed without help. They are also painfully aware that another failed attempt will almost certainly result in Nimbani's death. Mendofa can't afford to be seen to be weak, can't afford to allow anyone to think that his power is being undermined, or that he is afraid of anyone. Mendofa will kill him out of spite, and just take a risk that the Russians will back him up if the rest of Africa goes nuts. He's banking on them wanting the Uranium badly enough to help him keep his piece of the jungle."

"Where do we come in?"

"You and Dominic will go along with Mr Nimbani's people …."

"Read, private army," Hawke drawled sarcastically.

"Whatever," Archangel sighed again. "No political leader can stay in power without the support of the legitimate military," he pointed out.

"And?"

"And they raid the installation where Mr Nimbani is being held, and you and Dominic will help them to get him out, and then get him out of the country safely."

"You make it sound so easy, Michael," Hawke growled.

"Easy? No," Archangel acquiesced. "Far from it," he acknowledged. "And that is why I need you to commit to this indefinitely. It will require co-operation, in depth planning and possibly specialist training. We're still thrashing out the details, but thus far, the deal is, you go along with Nimbani's people, after all, they have knowledge and experience of the region, and what you might come up against, and then you get him the hell out of Dodge. His people will mop up and hold the fort while you bring Nimbani back here, so that he can go to the UN to try to persuade them to intervene."

"Piece of cake," Hawke's tone was sarcastic. "What's in it for us, the US I mean?"

"Aside from political stability in the region, and getting one over on the Russians, what do you think?"

"Uranium."

"Uranium. Better in our hands than theirs, right?"

"I guess …."

"Glad we agree on something."

"So what's the plan?" Dominic Santini frowned, clearly thinking that he had missed something important in the exchange between Hawke and Archangel.

"I just told you the plan."

"You're kidding me, right? You call that a plan?"

"I do recall mentioning that we are still thrashing out the details," Archangel reminded impatiently. "When I know more information, you will know it too. For now, Dominic, what I really need to hear from you, is if you are prepared to put in the time? If you can't commit, it doesn't give us a lot of time to find a replacement …."

"You said the job would need planning and some special training," Hawke jumped in before Dominic Santini could blow his stack, and gave Archangel a look that clearly said, back off.

"Yes," Archangel acknowledged. "Again, I don't have details …."

"But this raid on the installation where they are holding Nimbani, will probably be commando style, yes? An assault team …."

"Commandos? Assault team? What the hell are you trying to do, Michael? Start a war!" Dominic Santini sputtered.

"No, Dominic. Prevent one."

"Then let String and me and the Lady go in there, in and out in a flash, and no-one would be any the wiser …."

"Would that I could, Dominic. If it were that simple, you two would already be on your way."

"Just who is calling the shots here, Michael?" Hawke demanded, suddenly getting a bad feeling about the whole business, as he pinned the man in white with a frosty glare now.

"There are several agencies, government departments, liaising over this dilemma, Hawke, all with their own very specific agendas, and all with their own equally important parts to play. You just concentrate on carrying out your mission brief, _**my**_ orders, and get yourselves and Mr Nimbani out of there, in one piece."

"You can count on that, Michael."

"So?"

"How much time are we talking about here, Michael? Days? A week? A month?"

Archangel shrugged absently.

"Dominic said it earlier, Hawke. It takes as long as it takes. There's a lot to get set up …."

"I see," Dominic Santini watched the exchange, and knew what was going on in the younger man's head.

"Look Dom, there's nothing that says you have to get involved in this," Hawke protested now, although his heart was heavy at the thought of taking on the job without the old guy.

"You think I'd let you go out there alone?" Santini blustered. It was exactly what he had been expecting from the younger man. "Forget it!" he railed, clearly outraged at the prospect of leaving the young man to face this mission alone.

"Dom …."

"Forget it, String. I'm in, and if it means that I have to close down Santini Air to get this thing done, then that's just what I'll have to do. It's my business. My choice," he glowered at Hawke now.

"So, are we doing this, gentlemen?"

"Guess so …." But Hawke was still looking at Santini, debating the wisdom of his ever having gotten his old friend in to this with him.

However, Dom was a stubborn, proud old geezer, and backing his crazy young friend up made him feel more alive and useful than he had in a long time.

The last thing that Hawke wanted was to put the old guy's nose out of joint by hinting that he didn't think the guy could handle it, but neither did he want to put his dear old friend in danger.

Still, it was Dom's decision.

Dom was his own man, and he knew the risks.

It was his life.

"Didn't I just say?" Santini never took his eyes off Hawke, and his tone of voice was cold and hard.

"Indeed you did," Archangel gave the older man an appreciative nod. He hadn't been looking forward to Hawke's reaction when he told him who the sucker was that they had in line to fill Santini's shoes, if he pulled out.

"So, how long before you have details?"

"A day. Maybe two."

"Time enough for us to go check out the Lady …."

Santini echoed Hawke's thoughts now, and the younger man smiled at his old friend, hoping to convey to the older man just how much he appreciated what he was passing up to follow him into this craziness.

Santini Air was his business, but it was more than just his livelihood, it was his life, his family, everything. Every job they did for what ever studio, came from years of hard work that Dominic had invested in building up a reputation for delivering the goods at a reasonable price and safely.

The movie industry was so shallow, so fickle; it wouldn't take much for them to start looking elsewhere, if they felt that Santini Air had let them down.

Movie work was their staple, their bread and butter. Maintenance, renovation, hauling the odd piece of freight, lessons, aerial photography and the occasional passenger charter filled in the gaps, but the big money came from stunt work, and Dominic couldn't afford to pass up any work that came his way.

Nobody knew this better than Dom himself.

However, now that he had thrown his hat into the ring, he wouldn't pull out, leaving Hawke high and dry.

And, if he was honest with himself, Stringfellow Hawke was relieved.

He would much rather have Dominic Santini riding shot gun with him, than go alone, or perhaps be forced to accept someone appointed by Archangel to go with him.

They were a good team.

Airwolf, Hawke and Santini.

"Good idea," Archangel acknowledged. "Let me know if there is anything that you need."

"You betchya!"

"Can you be ready to leave by Friday?"

"Guess we'll have to be, right?"

"Right."

"And where will we be heading?"

"Cimbawe. One of those friendly neighbors I mentioned before. Robert Nimbani's people have a training camp there, just across the border from Kembala. " Archangel disclosed.

"And the details?"

"I'll get them to you, ASAP."

"You do that."

"_**Tonight with words unspoken, you say that I'm the only one …."**_

The words erupted into the stillness of the late afternoon as Dominic Santini reached out to the Jeep's radio and tuned it into the local Golden Oldies station he liked to listen to when he wasn't driving, then sat back in his seat and fixed his eyes straight ahead, subsequently missing the strange look that passed over the driver's face.

"_**But will my heart be broken, when the night meets the morning sun?"**_

Stringfellow Hawke slowly reached out and silenced the radio, not caring if Dominic was further angered by his actions. He simply couldn't listen to another word without his heart breaking into a thousand shards.

And people wondered why he much preferred to immerse himself in classical music.

At least with Vivaldi or Beethoven there were no saccharine lyrics guaranteed to twist your guts in knots and rip your heart from your chest, as they reminded you of your every failure, indiscretion and disappointment ….

Besides, he needed to clear the air with the older man, and he knew from experience that they would both feel better if he did it sooner rather than later.

"I was listening to that," Santini grouched, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead of them.

"So, what do you think?" Stringfellow Hawke asked ignoring the older man's brusque tone, once they were safely on the road out from Knightsbridge.

Dominic Santini adjusted his red silk baseball cap on his head and hunkered down in his seat, before finally turning slightly to regard the younger man.

"I think you and me gotta talk," he glowered at Hawke.

"Look, Dom …."

"No, _**you**_ look, String. I've been doing my own thinking, and making my own decisions for a lot of years, and I don't need _**you**_ to keep reminding me that I'm not as young as I used to be. These old bones may creak a little first thing in the morning, but, I ain't over the hill yet, and I can still be useful."

"Nobody is denying that, Dom," Hawke protested, but then clamped his mouth shut, scowling darkly as he saw the look that settled on the older man's face.

"I know the risks, and _**I **_decide if they are worth taking, same as you do."

"Dom, I don't mean to imply that you are too old for this stuff. It's just that …."

"I know, kid. You beat yourself up every time we go off on one of these junkets, fretting over whether you'll be able to live with yourself, if you get the old geezer killed."

Hawke nodded gently, the sorrow and heartache he felt at the prospect of losing his one true friend in all of the world, there, in his deep blue eyes, for the older man to see.

"Me too," Santini smiled benignly now, touched by the deep affection that he saw shining in the younger man's eyes. "I'm not saying that it hasn't crossed my mind. I'd be a fool not to have thought about it once or twice. About you too kid, about how I would feel if _**your**_ number was up. You must have thought about it too, haven't you?" Hawke blinked twice in confirmation.

Yes, he had thought about what might happen to him one of these days, but he hadn't allowed himself to dwell on it, because it simply didn't matter. His life was worthless without St John to share it with.

What was more important was how Dominic would feel if he didn't come back from a mission one day, and the guilt and heartache he felt at causing the old man such grief was what kept him honest, and his mind focused on staying alive.

"But, I don't have a death wish, I promise ya," Santini grew serious again now. "I worry about you, but I'd worry a whole helluva lot more if I weren't there to cover your six, and that my young friend, would kill me just as quickly as any stray bullet!"

"Dom …."

"My life, my responsibility, and mine alone, got me?"

"Dom …."

"I love what we do up there, with the Lady. I don't always like some of the stuff we see, and do, but I feel more alive, more useful and young again when we're out there together, you and me and the Lady. If something happens to me kid, it will be because it was meant to be. Fate. We take every precaution, we look out for each other, but sometimes, things happen beyond our control. If something happens to me, it won't be your fault. Understand me? You shouldn't blame yourself, kid, and if my time is up, at least I'll go doing something useful, something that I love," Santini paused to take a breath, but Hawke knew better than to interrupt him when he was in full flow.

"It's gotta be better than vegetating in some damned nursing home, drooling and dribbling and driving everyone crazy asking them what day it is!" And Stringfellow Hawke found himself in complete, if silent agreement, with his old friend. If it came to that, it would just about break his heart, but, then again, who knew how he would cope if he had to watch Dominic Santini bleed to death before his very eyes ….

"It's my life, String, gotta live it my way, the best way that I can, and not be afraid of the consequences. Capice?"

"Yeah, I understand, Dom," Hawke did too, and he smiled gently back at the older man now.

"And it's my right to choose the way I go out too. OK? I'd much rather go out in a blaze of glory! You get my drift?"

"Yeah Dom, although I hope you're not planning to do it right this minute …."

"Clown! Look, I understand why you do it, String, and I'm touched, but you can't protect me from everything, even if it was your job, which it ain't. I'd much rather be out there, with you, than sitting here alone, worrying about what craziness you're getting yourself into, and if you'll be coming home. I did enough of that when you were in Vietnam. After we lost St John, I promised myself, never again. I promised myself that I would never again be left in the position of not knowing what happened to you," Santini confided. "The _**not knowing**_ is worse."

Hawke nodded.

He felt the same way.

If he could just be sure about St John's fate, alive or dead, then perhaps he could come to terms with it and move on, and start living his life as he should.

"I don't want to die alone, kid. Is it so wrong of me to want for you not to die alone too? I'm not conceited enough to think that I might be able to stop it from happening, but if I am at least there, with you, then maybe it will be easier to live with, afterwards. I will know that I did everything that I could, and we'll have our chance to say goodbye. Same with me. If you're there, you'll have no reason to keep beating yourself up over it, once I'm gone, and again, we will have a chance to say goodbye."

"Nobody's gonna die, Dom."

"Too damned right!" Santini agreed, throwing the younger man a wide gap-toothed smile, knowing that he had given him some serious food for thought. "You know where I stand, kid. Let's not have this conversation again, huh?"

"Ok," Hawke let out a ragged sigh, knowing that everything that Santini had said had been true and had come from the heart.

He felt the same way too.

Santini wasn't being morbid or sentimental. He was being honest and realistic.

He wanted closure, for both of them, so that they could each accept what had happened and then go on.

"So," Hawke let out another deep sigh. "What do you think?" he asked once more.

"I think I never heard anything so half-assed in my whole life," Santini sighed back. "Hell, I know Michael doesn't generally give much away, but he usually has more Intel than that fairy story he just spun us back there."

"Michael's not calling the shots this time, and I figure that whoever is, is only feeding him what he thinks he needs to know, just enough to get his co-operation."

"I guess."

"We've done dumber things on less information," Hawke reminded.

"We were both younger then!" Santini chuckled then grew sombre once more. "I aged about fifteen years when I saw you take that bullet, last time we went to Africa."

"Yeah," Hawke turned to give the older man a wry, half smile. "See, I keep telling you my reactions aren't as fast as when I was nineteen. I dodged when I should have swerved .…"

"They do say a moving target is much harder to hit," Santini grinned. "Well, there's one good thing about this job …."

"There is?" Hawke took the bait, relieved that things were back on an even keel between them again.

"Yeah, at least I won't need to pack my thermal underwear!" Santini roared with laughter. "Kembala or Cimbawe, or wherever the hell we're going, is sure to be a helluva lot warmer than Siberia!"

Stringfellow Hawke rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation as the old man threw back his head and roared with laughter once more, almost losing his baseball cap to boot.

"Them Russians, now why can't they just stick to playing nice in their own backyards?"

"You'll be able to ask them yourself, Dom, if this thing goes south on us," Hawke reminded, and his words had the immediate effect of sobering Dominic Santini. "I hear Moscow's lovely this time of the year …."

Dominic Santini turned his head slightly and gave the younger man a scowl then drawing in a deep breath said; "Well at least now you have a legitimate reason for not going to your High School reunion."

"I wasn't going anyway," Hawke reminded sourly. "I tore up the invitation."

"I know, but if you'd really wanted to go, you wouldn't have let not having that stupid piece of paper stop you," Santini pointed out reasonably. "You ready to tell me about that yet?"

Hawke briefly took his eyes off the road ahead and gave the older man, a cold penetrating glare.

"Guess not," Santini sighed heavily, and then reached out to turn the radio back on, which elicited another dark scowl from Hawke. "It's either this or talk to me, because I ain't sitting here in silence all the way back to Los Angeles."

Santini relaxed back in his chair, the radio station now playing the recent number one hit record by that weird English band, Culture Club, fronted by that guy who looked like a girl, with his long hair in ribbons and make up plastered all over his face, Boy George, the song being Karma Chameleon, and Santini screwed his nose up in distaste, which in turn made Hawke smile as he continued to drive the Jeep on toward home.


	8. Chapter 8

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters__._

Chapter Eight

_**CIMBAWE, AFRICA.**_

_**ONE MONTH LATER ...**_

"You must be out of your mind!" Stringfellow Hawke deliberately kept his voice low, but anyone who knew him well would immediately have recognized the danger in that, matched with the dark, forbidding expression on his face.

"We go tomorrow," Colonel Benjamin Kubasa remained defiant, as he pinned Hawke with equally cold, dark eyes, which resembled chips of jet, set wide apart in his dark, open, arrogant features.

"Your people aren't ready, Colonel," Hawke pointed out, glancing over to where Dominic Santini sat in the other corner on a canvas camping chair, minding his own business, as he watched in silence.

The look was meant to elicit the older man's support, but Santini remained mute and raised his shoulders briefly in a shrug, much to Hawke's chagrin.

"Mr Hawke, we both know that they are not up to the standards of the United States Army, or your Marines, and even if we had the luxury of time to train them, they probably never will be," Kubasa's expression remained haughty. "What they lack in experience, they more than make up for in loyalty, devotion and enthusiasm. We go tomorrow."

Again Stringfellow Hawke looked to Dominic Santini for support, but the look he got back from the older man made him feel even more frustrated.

"Colonel, please, won't you reconsider?"

"No, Mr Hawke. There is no more time. General Mendofa is raping and plundering my country, forcing my fellow countrymen to swell the ranks of his Army, setting brother against brother, father against son, ruling with tyranny and fear! The longer we delay the more chance we will be discovered, or betrayed, the more chance Mendofa will tire of playing games, and simply kill Mr Nimbani. If we do not make a move tomorrow, I fear that there will be no more chances."

"You can't rush into this, Colonel," Hawke protested. "You're men are ill equipped, under trained, and totally unprepared," he pointed out.

"All of which is _**my**_ concern, not _**yours**_."

"It is my concern, if it gets me, Dominic or Mr Nimbani killed!"

"Mr Hawke, I do not need you to tell me things that I am already aware of," Kubasa sighed heavily now. "My men will do their best. All will do their duty. There is no more time. We must move tomorrow. All I need to hear from you, Mr Hawke, is, are _**you**_ equipped, trained and prepared to carry out your part in this operation?"

_**Touché,**_ Dominic Santini thought sourly.

Nicely done too, turning the tables on his young friend, making it appear that Hawke was the one angling for more time, he silently conceded.

Colonel Kubasa and Stringfellow Hawke had proved to be as compatible as oil and water from day one, and almost three weeks of living on top of each other, under less than civilised conditions, here in Tent City, had not improved either man's sense of humour.

Dominic Santini had watched with a growing sense of unease as the two men tap danced around each other, wisely keeping his comments to himself, and always keeping in mind the pressures that both men were under to succeed in their undertakings, as well as that cramped living conditions, bad food in short supply, the heat and the flies were not conducive to good tempers.

For almost three weeks, Hawke and Santini had lived and worked alongside the rest of the Colonel's troops, being put through their paces, along with the fresh faced, idealistic teenagers, who called themselves The Kembala People's Liberation Army, or KPLA.

Except for the Colonel, and a couple of his junior officers, there wasn't an experienced man amongst them, but as the Colonel had just pointed out, what they lacked in training and experience, they more than made up for in enthusiasm, and willingness to die for their cause.

Dominic Santini knew that Hawke had a valid point, but pointing out the KPLA's inadequacies and ineptitudes wasn't going to up anyone's confidence levels any time soon.

Besides, they were under the Colonel's command, and like it or not, to that end, were obliged to follow his orders.

"Well, Mr Hawke?"

"Dominic and I are ready," Hawke spoke through clenched teeth now, scowling darkly at the Colonel. "You just get us there, and we'll take care of the rest."

"We will do our best to try to oblige you, Mr Hawke, Mr Santini," Kubasa turned his head briefly to acknowledge the older American now. "We all have our reservations about this operation, but the simple truth of it is, we have run out of time," he drew in a long, deep breath, throwing back his shoulders and straightening his spine. "We leave before first light."

"We'll be there."

Although the look on Hawke's face told Santini of his frustration and disappointment that they were going to have to do this thing in the daylight.

"And God help us all," Hawke snarled, and after offering the Colonel a rather weak salute, pulled back the tent flap, ducked outside and stalked across the compound, quickly followed by Dominic Santini.

"Hey, take it easy, kid. You're gonna strain something vital if you don't calm down," Santini advised sagely, trying valiantly, but without much success, to conceal his amusement at the younger man's behaviour.

"To borrow a phrase from you, Dom, I don't like it!" Hawke ground out now.

"Well, I sort of got that, but how smart do you think it is challenging the Colonel like that? It's his show. You push him hard enough; you could find yourself standing in front of a firing squad. His country. His rules," Santini reminded, growing serious now. "You didn't tell him anything that he didn't already know, String, but he is in a tight spot, too."

"I've got a real bad feeling about this, Dom. Bunch of amateurs!" Hawke snarled, kicking out angrily at a nearby rock. "Get us all killed!" He kicked the rock again sending it flying through the air. "I can't believe I let Archangel sweet talk us into this!" He grouched.

"Well, he did, and since we're here," Santini sighed deeply, wondering how the rock had offended Hawke, as it landed with a dull thud a few feet away and sent up a swirl of dust. "And since you spent all that time learning to play with your new toy, I say, let's get this thing done, then we can high tail it out of here and you can buy me a nice ice cold beer, in a tall frosted glass. A thick, juicy steak and a comfortable bed wouldn't go amiss either …. Not to mention hot running water and soft toilet tissue …."

"I don't see that we have any other choice but to go through with it," Hawke threw Santini an apologetic look now. "We are committed."

"Don't you mean, we should be!" Santini grinned, but the sour look on Hawke's face told him that the younger man did not appreciate the bad humour.

"Our friend Kruger had the right idea," Hawke mumbled, finding another rock and nudging it with the toe of his boot, but resisted the urge to launch it into the air.

Rafe Kruger had been the only other white man in the camp, a weapons specialist enlisted to assist Hawke to use his new 'toy'

"Not his war."

"Not ours either, Dom," Hawke sighed deeply now. "We'd better check on Airwolf."

"What's to check, String? She's not moved since we checked on her last night, and again this morning."

It was Santini's turn to grouch now, digging the toe of his right boot into the dust and kicking up little eddies.

"It's a crying shame, that beautiful machine, just sitting there idle, under that camouflage net since we got here, baking in the sun in the daytime and freezing to death at night ..."

Due to the limited supply of fuel, Hawke had decreed that they would have to limit their use of Airwolf to one brief reconnaissance flight to survey their routes to and from the barracks, where Robert Nimbani was being held prisoner, and their escape route out of Cimbawe, plotting the possible locations where their ground vehicle might be ambushed and they might come under fire from enemy forces, as they made their way back to the safety of Airwolf.

"Poor baby," Hawke's tone was sarcastic as he threw the older man a pained look.

"Yes, poor baby!" Santini grinned, not rising to the bait.

"We'd still better go check on her. I don't want to have to explain to the Colonel that you're poor baby is throwing a tantrum, when her engines refuse to start in the morning."

"Okay. Maybe a little air conditioning will cool your burners," Santini quipped, and this time, Hawke could not help a wry smile from touching his lips, briefly.

"I'm okay, Dom."

"Sure you are, kid," Santini draped his arm around the younger man's shoulders now, as they strode out off towards the clump of dry bushes and spindly trees, in a narrow gully, where they had concealed Airwolf.

"We'll check on the Lady, then chow down, and get a little shut eye."

"Yeah," Hawke sighed deeply, feeling a little antsy, but he knew that that was due more to their impending mission, than to the recent exchange with Colonel Kubasa.

The waiting around, the forced inactivity, always got to him.

At least now there was going to be some action, there was an end in sight.

He could already feel the adrenalin coursing through his veins.

Hawke was still uneasy about the Colonel and his men, and their part in the mission, but it was beyond his control. He had more than enough to think about with regard to his own and Dominic Santini's responsibilities, and shouldn't concern himself with what might happen after he and Dom had gotten Robert Nimbani out safely, and the KPLA were left to their own devices.

It was their country, after all, and their war.

However, he couldn't help thinking that it would be like lambs to the slaughter, and he was relieved that he and Dominic wouldn't have to stick around to watch the carnage.


	9. Chapter 9

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters__._

Chapter Nine

_**SUNDAY, **_

_**SUN RISE OVER AN AFRICAN SAVANNAH.**_

In the early hours of the morning, in pitch black darkness, a convoy of two canvas covered trucks, containing fifty men from the KPLA, two Jeeps, one containing Colonel Benjamin Kubasa and his senior staff, the other transporting Stringfellow Hawke, Dominic Santini, one guard and their driver, had rolled out of their tented camp, slowly, before first light and had driven to the dry river bed, an unmarked and undefended border that separated Kembala, and Cimbawe, where they would leave their vehicles and continue their journey on foot, a little shy of a kilometre, or half a mile's walk, through open savannah or veldt as it was known here in Africa, and clumps of dry brush and spindly trees, following the dry river bed deeper in to Kembala, to the barracks of General Mendofa's army and the cellblock, housing the former Presidential candidate, Mr Robert Nimbani.

Stringfellow Hawke's mood had not improved since the previous evening, and he remained silent and stone faced throughout the journey seated beside the KPLA driver up front, carefully cradling on his lap, the crossbow that he had spent the best part of three weeks meticulously learning to use, for just this occasion, under the tutelage of Rafe Kruger

Dominic Santini sat behind Hawke, also silent, thoughtful, wondering what the end of this day would bring, as he watched wide fingers of dawn light creep up over the distant mountains.

Under orders from Colonel Kubasa the convoy had finally stopped, and they had parked up the vehicles and covered them with camouflage nets, and then the KPLA and Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini had begun the next leg of their journey on foot, to the barracks.

Now as the sun was full in the sky and the heat of the day was already beginning to make its self felt, the group of men were steadily making their way up a slight rise, a shrub and tree covered hillock, on the other side of which, Stringfellow Hawke knew lay their objective.

As they crested the hill, they were confronted by a sprawl of single storey brick buildings, guarded by three primitive, tall, single platform wooden watch towers.

Quietly and stealthily the KPLA troops spread out across the top of the hillside and covertly began to make their way over the rise and down hill to the vast plateau below, in which nestled the barracks, with Colonel Benjamin Kubasa silently directing his troops into their positions, sending men off in different directions, then turning to glance over his shoulder to summon up Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini, from their positions in the rear of the column.

Concealed in the trees, Hawke hunkered down low as he sprinted up the hill to join Colonel Kubasa and his small group of troops, with Dominic Santini, breathing hard as he laboured to keep up, hot on his heels, coming up behind him.

"Mr Hawke, time to see just how good you really are with that thing," the Colonel indicated to the silent, but deadly accurate crossbow which Hawke was holding in a protective manner against his chest. Hawke was taking good care of his new 'toy' as Santini had called it, but was also relieved to feel the weight of his more favoured weapon, his handgun, in it's holster clipped on to his belt.

"After you," Kubasa indicated to the three watch towers, rising up out of the flatland below, and to the solitary guard who occupied each of them.

Hawke let out a deep sigh, but made no response.

He knew what he had to do, and he would not flinch from doing his duty.

Quietly, hunkered down, keeping him self concealed and making him self as small a target as he could, Hawke crept forward, followed by Santini, who carried the small box of precious ammunition for the crossbow, until he was almost at the very edge of the tree-line.

Finding a good spot, a patch of flat and even ground so that he would have good balance and thus a steady hand, Hawke set about preparing his weapon, screwing on the sight, easing back the bowstring and testing the trigger mechanism to ensure that it moved freely, then taking a bolt from Dominic Santini's hand to slide it carefully into the groove, notching it into place carefully.

Hawke raised the weapon's sight up to his eye and focused on the line of low brick buildings on the horizon, making sure that the sight was correctly aligned, that he wouldn't be dazzled by the sun at the precise moment he released the trigger, all the time contemplating his next move.

Three targets to choose from.

Hawke pulled the sight away from his eyes and glanced over in the direction of the furthest watch tower then raised the sight to his eye once more, focusing on the man on duty, who was slouching lazily in a rickety chair, obviously asleep.

Hawke panned around until his focus settled on the next guard in the next watch tower, this man was awake, standing, smoking, his weapon slung casually over his shoulder. Fortunately, he was looking in the wrong direction, his back to Hawke as he stood slightly side on, exposing his right side.

Hawke then used the sight to pan around to the third watch tower, where he found the other guard, also slouching in his seat, gun resting between his legs, hands clasped together almost as though in prayer, around the barrel, his chin resting on his knuckles. Hawke fancied that he could almost hear the man snoring.

This made Hawke's choice of target easier.

He would have to dispose of the man who was awake first, thus eliminating any possibility of his raising the alarm. The two sleeping men would be easy to despatch, silently, once the first man was out of the picture.

Decision made, Hawke lowered the crossbow, drew in a long, cleansing breath, before repositioning the crossbow and setting his sights on his first target.

Hawke once again raised the sight to his right eye, focused on his target, flexed his fingers briefly around the trigger, waited patiently for the man to drop his cigarette butt on to the wooden floor of the platform and grind it into the plank with the toe of his boot, then gripping the trigger firmly, pulled back on it slowly and gently, releasing the bolt, which whistled and zinged through the heat thickened morning air and embedded its self firmly in the exposed column of the target's neck.

The guard crumpled silently to the floor of the watch tower and Hawke quickly reached out to Dominic Santini who was holding out the second bolt ready for him, carefully repeating the loading routine, pulling back the bowstring, sliding the bolt into the groove, notching it gently into place, then raised the weapon's sight to his eye once more and lining up his next target, released the trigger mechanism once more, disposing of his target with silent but deadly accuracy. The dead man pitched forward from his seat to land with a heavy thud, the short white feathers of the bolt protruding from half way down his spine.

Santini was ready with the third bolt, and without thought or time to draw a breath, Hawke had the crossbow loaded once more and in less than twenty seconds the third bolt was whistling and whooshing through the air, to embed its self deep in the target's heart.

With the three guards disposed of, Colonel Kubasa hastily moved his men forward, down the hill, and the first wave of troops to arrive at the barbed wire perimeter fence hastily produced wire cutters from their packs and made short work of opening up the fence, and their colleagues poured in through the hole to slam themselves up flat against the brickwork of the first low building, weapons raised in readiness, as the second wave came flooding down the hill and through the hole in the fence, rushing past them to the second low building, where they too took up defensive postures, awaiting their orders to proceed.

After disposing of the crossbow, Hawke and Santini, sprinted out from the cover of the trees and followed the troops flooding through the hole in the fence, joining Kubasa's men as they remained against the wall of the first building, aware that the rest of the Colonel's troops had been charged with the task of seeking out and eliminating the rest of the guards, and the enemy forces posted at these barracks.

Half of the KPLA men would storm the guard house, and the other half would deal with the mess hall, where it was anticipated that most of the men would be, partaking of the morning meal, then the bunkhouses and store rooms and motor pool outbuildings, and the radio shack, subduing any resistance, and preventing any chance of calling for reinforcements, while Hawke and Santini took a couple of men to give them covering fire, while they went in search of the cell block and Robert Nimbani.

All was quiet, except for the plaintive howl of a lone dog, or maybe it was a hyena, some way off in the distance, reminding Hawke that this wasn't California.

Stringfellow Hawke felt a deep sense of unease, the sixth sense that he had come to trust, and which had saved his life on countless occasions, sending a foreboding, tingling sensation through his brain.

It was too quiet.

Unnaturally so.

On any ordinary day, he might have expected to hear men's raised voices as they shared a meal or went about their routine daily chores, perhaps a radio playing the latest hit tune, or broadcasting their leader's political ambitions for their country, the sounds of vehicles being maintained, pots and pans being moved around as the meal was prepared and served, but there was none of this.

However, Hawke reasoned silently, the heat was probably a contributing factor, restricting physical activity to a minimum, and to prove his point, he was suddenly acutely aware of the beads of perspiration gathering on his brow, and the thin material of his Airwolf flight suit clinging to his back, shoulders and the backs of his thighs.

Still feeling uneasy, Hawke reminded himself that they had the element of surprise on their side, and if their Intel was reliable, they should expect to find the majority of Mendofa's people all in one place, chowing down, and that would make them easier to contain and control.

No fuss, no muss.

The KPLA soldiers moved silently and swiftly as they spread out around the compound, trying to identify each of the low buildings, until Colonel Kubasa received a hand signal from the leader of the first group, indicating that they had located the guard house and were preparing to secure it.

A few minutes later, the leader of the second team also indicated that they had identified the mess hall and were also ready to go.

Without hesitation, Benjamin Kubasa gave the silent order to proceed.

Once his troops had begun their assault, Colonel Kubasa sent Stringfellow Hawke, Dominic Santini and the two men who had accompanied them in the Jeep, out in search of their objective.

The barracks were well spread out, and the first building that they came to appeared to be a bunkhouse, and it was empty. The next block along contained the infirmary, where several men lay quietly in metal framed hospital beds, covered with thin sheets and draped with mosquito nets.

Hawke, Santini and their escort ducked under the window frame as they proceeded, and made their way to the next block of low buildings.

This proved to be their prime target.

This was the cell block.

This was the place where they would find Robert Nimbani.

Leaving one KPLA soldier at the entrance to the cell block to give them covering fire when they returned with Nimbani, quietly and stealthily, Hawke and Santini, and their single escort, opened up the iron barred door of the cell block and made their way to the end of the first corridor, where they halted, briefly, weapons poised ready to take out any guard posted to keep watch over the former Kembala Presidential candidate, but again, all was quiet, and suddenly Hawke was growing suspicious, alarm bells going off in his head.

Perhaps it was just his cynical nature, he mused silently, as he scanned the corridor ahead, but this was proving to be just a little too easy.

No sentry posted at the entrance, flimsy lock on the door which had given way easily when the KPLA guard had kicked it ….

Simply too good to be true.

He had expected to meet with some resistance.

From all that he had been told about Mendofa's men, how ruthless and cold blooded they were when dealing with their enemies, and what he had heard about the man himself, about Joshua Mendofa's paranoia and his need for absolute control, Hawke had expected Robert Nimbani to be very heavily guarded.

Something about this was off.

Way off.

He shared a furtive glance with Dominic Santini who looked equally confused and bewildered, but then the silence was suddenly broken by the sound of a door creaking open and a toilet flushing, and out of nowhere one lone guard stepped out, still adjusting his clothing, and much to his surprise was confronted by the sight of three strangers, weapons drawn and aiming at him.

The KPLA soldier reacted quickly; drawing a vicious looking hunting knife from his belt and in one swift move was upon the guard, moving behind him to draw the knife across his throat in one swift, ruthless stroke.

At almost exactly the same time, there was a sudden loud burst of sporadic gunfire, from the compound and Hawke and Santini again glanced at each other.

_**This was more like it.**_

Hawke followed the KPLA man down the corridor, stepping over the guard's corpse with a look of distaste on his face.

_**Now it started.**_

He glanced back quickly over his shoulder, to check on Dominic Santini's progress, and the look on the older man's face was priceless, as he too stepped carefully over the dead man and tried to avoid the blood rushing from his open throat and spilling out and pooling on the sandy floor.

"Here we go, kid," Santini sighed, catching Hawke's eye.

"Yeah, Dom, here we go."

The cells were small concrete and brick boxes, three in a row along a narrow, windowless corridor, airless and as hot as an oven, and in the last cell in the row, a lone black man, emaciated and clad in filthy, perspiration soaked rags, lay moaning softly on a low wooden bunk, writhing in delirium, his body racked with fever.

Hawke and Santini looked at each other, and each knew immediately what the other was thinking.

_**This was not good.**_

This had suddenly made their job twice as difficult, the odds of them succeeding almost impossible.

No-one had anticipated that Robert Nimbani might be ill, or injured, and unable to aid his rescuers in his escape.

Neither Hawke nor Santini relished the prospect of having to carry the man back up the rough, uneven ground of that hill out there, and back over the rugged, undulating terrain of the dry river bed to where the Jeep was located, so that they could then drive back to where Airwolf patiently lay in wait for them to make their final escape from Cimbawe.

The KPLA soldier raised his weapon and after a short burst of firing, the lock mechanism on the cell door exploded, then as Hawke and Santini entered the cell, their lone escort withdrew to position him self at the top of the corridor, weapon poised ready to give covering fire as they made their escape with Robert Nimbani.

As they approached the prisoner, the insensate man on the bed showed no sign of awareness, even when Dominic Santini produced Airwolf's small emergency water canteen from where it hung off his belt, and offered the man a drink.

Nimbani pushed the canteen away and began thrashing on the bed, growing agitated and lashing out as Santini and Hawke tried to reassure him that he was safe, and they were there to rescue him, not harm him.

His protests grew louder, his thrashing more violent, fuelled by fever and delirium, until realising that they were now losing precious time, and seeing that there was no other choice, Stringfellow Hawke took matters into his own hands, taking a swing at the frantic man's jaw, knocking him out cold with one blow.

Hawke and Santini shared a pained look of exasperation over the unconscious man's head, as they struggled to get him into an upright position, and then each man slung one of Nimbani's arms around their necks, and together they hauled him to his feet. However, the man was a dead weight, hanging limply between them; his feet dragging the floor as they staggered toward the cell door and then down the narrow corridor.

"It's no good, String," Santini panted breathlessly as they paused for breath at the top of the corridor. "We can't carry him like this, all the way!" He protested.

"You got a better idea?" Hawke snarled, breathing hard too. "Go see if you can flag down a passing elephant!" he added sarcastically.

"No need to be like that," Santini's tone was cool, his expression hurt, and Hawke instantly regretted his flare of temper.

"I'm sorry, Dom," he signed deeply and gave Santini a sheepish look.

He wasn't mad with Dominic, but he was deeply frustrated and irritated by this sudden new development, in what had already been a logistical nightmare.

He had known that it wasn't going to be easy, travelling on foot, out in the open, during the hottest part of the day, but no-one had anticipated that Mendofa would not have taken reasonably good care of his asset.

Now they were faced with an almost impossible task.

All this must have been written on his face, for Dominic Santini hung his head briefly and then, letting out a deep sigh, gave the younger man a much more understanding look.

"Hell, I know it's not ideal, Dom, but work with me, for now," Hawke appealed, feeling perspiration trickling down the gap between his shoulder blades, which in turn sent an ominous shiver down his spine. "We'll work something out when we're out of here. Maybe take turns …."

"Or maybe not."

"Ok. We'll take him between us until we reach flatter ground, and then I'll take him while you cover us."

"Sounds like a plan."

"Right now Dom, I don't see we have any other choice," Hawke pointed out reasonably. "It's the best that we can do. Unless of course you'd like to stay and sample some of General Mendofa's hospitality?"

He slowly lowered his gaze to where the unconscious man hung between them, drawing Santini's attention to the deplorable physical condition he was in.

"I'll pass on that one, if it's all the same to you, kid," Santini managed a wry smile now. "I knew we should have stuck to our guns and told Michael that the best way to do this thing was with just you and me and the Lady, quick in and out, no fuss, no muss, leaving them eating our dust, and maybe a few rounds from the chain guns."

"We should just have told him to go to hell."

"Amen."

"But we didn't, so, meanwhile, back here in the real world …."

"We're in the fertiliser again, huh?"

"Yeah. C'mon, let's go. No point putting it off any longer."

"Slave driver."

Santini's voice was drowned out by more loud, rapid gunfire, this time sounding as though it was much closer.

"Our guys? Or theirs?" Santini asked, raising his voice to make him self heard.

"Does it really matter?" Hawke sighed.

"Sounds pretty close," Santini pointed out needlessly.

"Too damned close."

"I hope the Colonel realises the hole we're in here, String, and sends in the cavalry!"

"Don't count on it. Sounds like Colonel Kubasa has his hands pretty full right about now."

As Hawke finished speaking, there was a brief lull in the shooting outside, and now the other KPLA man, the one they had left on point duty, was frantically beckoning to them to hurry.

At the entrance, Hawke eased back the iron barred door and carefully poked his head out to take a quick look.

Men from both sides were running around the compound, letting off occasional bursts of gunfire before ducking behind any thing they could find for cover.

This was not good.

With only two men to give them cover, he, Dom and Nimbani would be like sitting ducks. They would be easy pickings, slow moving targets, right out in plain sight.

You didn't need to be a rocket scientist to work out their chances.

It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

They needed other options.

Hawke scanned the compound, squinting in the glare of the sun as he tried to locate a vehicle which he could hot wire, but there was nothing in plain sight, and he wouldn't leave Dominic just so that he could go off on a wild goose chase.

_**Damn.**_

_**So this was how if felt to be caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.**_

"String?"

"I'm thinking, ok …."

"Well, geez, that's great. Things can't be all that bad, if you got time to think!" Santini rolled his eyes heavenward as he muttered sarcastically.

"No, Dom," Hawke emitted a huge, shoulder raising sigh. "They're worse," he groaned.

"You don't say. Oh happy day! Oh well, guess its time to see just how quickly I can move my fat ass …."

"Dom …."

"Like you said, String. No other choice, right?"

"Right," Hawke agreed, reluctantly, desperately trying to come up with another option, but he was all out of ideas.

"Well then, let's go. I ain't gettin' any younger, and he ain't getting' any lighter. No offence …." Santini flicked his gaze down briefly to where the limp, unconscious man hung heavily between them. "I don't hear him complaining, so that makes it unanimous!"

"Ok," Hawke sighed deeply once more, knowing that Dominic was trying to make him feel better about their situation, but the fact was, all Hawke could envisage was disaster.

He wouldn't think about that now.

The only way to get through this was to be cold, ruthless and heartless.

"Whatever happens, keep moving, Dom," he advised the older man solemnly now, all businesslike, very much the one in command now. "One of us has to make sure this guy makes it out of here, alive …."

"So it's every man for himself, right?" Santini finished for him, knowing the score.

"Yeah, every man for himself. If something happens to me, just keep going. You can't carry both of us, and if you try, you're dead too."

"I understand, String. Same goes for me. Capice?" Hawke nodded, regretfully.

"Today's Sunday, right?" Hawke nodded, his brow suddenly pulled down in a frown, wondering where the older man was going with this. "Good day to die, Sunday."

"Dom, no day is a good day to die," Hawke snarled. "We'll be ok!"

"From your lips, to His ears!" Santini smiled gently at the younger man now. "Break a leg, kid."

"I sincerely hope not," Hawke growled, but he understood what Santini was really saying, and gave him a look that was meant to let the older man know just how much he loved him, and appreciated all that he had done for him. "Ready?"

"Ready." Santini confirmed.

"Then let's move …."


	10. Chapter 10

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters__._

Chapter Ten

As they exited the cell block there was more loud, sporadic gun fire and as they scurried to take cover against the wall of the infirmary building they had passed earlier, Hawke scanned the surrounding area, nursing a brief hope that if he could locate Colonel Benjamin Kubasa, or one of his senior officers, he could draw their attention to his team's plight, and then the Colonel would be forced to send more men to protect Robert Nimbani.

With a brief flare of relief, Hawke spotted Kubasa's burly sergeant, positioned outside the guard room, and sensing movement out of the corner of his eye, the man glanced over in their direction, then lifted his hand in acknowledgement that he was aware of their presence, and that they had achieved their goal.

However, it soon became clear to Hawke that the sergeant was pinned down at his current position, and was probably waiting for back up to come to his assistance, and the only positive that Hawke could see in their present situation was that the sergeant could offer them a limited amount of cover from his position, thus enabling his team to progress to the next building, the empty bunkhouse, where they could again take cover and pause to get their breath and reassess their situation.

The four man team waited for the sergeant to open fire, then made their move, Hawke and Santini struggling to keep hold of their precious cargo, both more than keenly aware of just how vulnerable they were.

Here they had limited cover, places to pause, to recover, but out there, on that hillside, and out on the veldt, they would be completely exposed.

During the weeks of preparation leading up to this farce, Hawke had protested that it was sheer madness to entrust the safety of the rescued Robert Nimbani to such a small force, but Colonel Kubasa had argued that a small team would be able to move more quickly, and not draw too much attention, whilst he would need every available man to hold off Mendofa's army and keep them contained while Hawke, Santini and their team safely transported Nimbani to Airwolf, and then on to the US.

Hawke had protested long into the night, and on many a long night in the three weeks leading up to the mission, arguing that it didn't matter if Mendofa's army were contained or not, if Nimbani was killed by a lucky sniper before they even got out of the compound, but Kubasa would only laugh, reminding Hawke that he was in charge, and that with the limited size of the force at his command, he had no other choice, decreeing that his orders were firm, and Hawke had had no choice but to accept it.

However, it had been a bitter pill to swallow, and had left Hawke wondering just what Kubasa's main objective was, for it suddenly seemed all too clear to Hawke that his so called friend, and leader's liberation was much lower down on Kubasa's agenda than it was on Hawke's.

From the start, Hawke had protested that the plan was too full of holes, potential risks and flaws, but his was a lone voice of protest, drowned out by those who had more influence and authority, and now he and Dominic Santini had fallen foul of one of those holes, and were suffering the consequences.

Their fate was in their own hands.

Hawke was worried about Dominic Santini. He was already struggling, breathing hard, perspiration pouring out of him, and they still had a hell of a way to go.

On the eve of the mission, Kubasa had finally settled on a compromise, that once his men had contained the guard house, he would release some of those men to join Hawke and Santini.

Hawke had had to accept that it was the best he was going to get, but surveying the situation in the compound now, it was clear to Hawke that things had not exactly gone to plan, and Kubasa's confidence that it would be a cake walk had been grossly over stated.

_**Surprise, my ass!**_ Hawke thought sourly to himself, as he and Dom hung on to the still unconscious Robert Nimbani and followed their KPLA point man quickly across the gap between the infirmary and the bunk house, and then across the gap between that building and the next, slowly getting closer and closer to the line of low buildings up against the fence line where they had come in.

During a lull in the shooting, as each side obviously reloaded and reassessed their situation, the four man assault team made a bolt for the last building, the one closest to the fence, and after a brief pause to catch their breath and adjust Nimbani's position between them, Hawke stuck his head out around the brickwork of the building to ascertain if anyone was lying in wait for them on the other side of the fence.

He could see nothing unusual, no unexpected movement amongst the trees, so satisfied that it was as safe as it could be to precede, Hawke signalled that they should go, make a run for it, through the hole in the fence and into the limited cover of the trees beyond.

Trying to take more of the insensate man's weight upon himself, hoping to give Dominic Santini some respite and a slightly better chance of keeping up, Hawke took off after the KPLA soldier, who held back the barbed wire to allow Hawke to scramble through first, hauling Nimbani after him, followed closely by Santini and the point man who let off several burst of covering fire before ducking under the barbed wire too.

As Hawke and Santini finally staggered up the incline at the bottom of the hill, making for the trees, all hell suddenly broke loose behind them.

Dominic Santini, his heart beating a staccato tattoo in his chest, desperate to draw air into his aching lungs, braced himself against the first sturdy tree he came too, grateful that he didn't actually collapse, panting raggedly as Hawke took Robert Nimbani's full weight now, and also breathing hard, face flushed and drenched with sweat, followed Santini's gaze back to where they had come from.

"Ah hell …." Santini gasped as he and Hawke watched swarms of men, indistinguishable from each other as their flimsy camouflage uniforms were so similar in colour and design, began a raging, running battle on the parade ground in front of the barracks, and it was only when Hawke recognised Colonel Kubasa himself, desperately trying to organise his people and return fire, that Hawke was able to distinguish which side was actually which.

It wasn't looking good for Kubasa and his men.

They were vastly outnumbered and out gunned too, with much more modern and reliable weapons, no doubt supplied to General Mendofa by his Russian allies, and it quickly became obvious to Hawke that the KPLA were being over run.

It was also painfully obvious that he and is team could not rely on any form of assistance from the Colonel and his men.

They truly were on their own, and once Mendofa's men had killed Kubasa and his men, he, Dominic Santini and Robert Nimbani would be the next targets in their sights.

Gasping raggedly, and watching with a shocked expression on his flushed face, Hawke realised that Dominic Santini had also just reached the same conclusion, but continued to watch in morbid fascination as hordes of men swept out of the buildings all around the sprawling barracks complex, shooting haphazardly, using the guns as cudgels when they ran out of ammunition, or cutting down Kubasa's men with short knives and bayonets, with the cold ruthlessness that Hawke had heard so much about these past three weeks.

These men did not take prisoners.

Prisoners were a needless drain on precious resources like food and water.

"We've gotta get out of here, now!" Hawke yelled above the sound of gunfire from below. "Move it, Dom!"

They had to keep moving, one objective paramount now, to stay alive.

One goal, to reach that dry river bed that marked the border between Cimbawe and Kembala, and hope and pray that General Mendofa's men would not breach that border to pursue them into Cimbawe, and beyond that, to get to the Jeep, because it was the only way they could get back to Airwolf.

Hawke's reactions were quicker than Santini's, he was younger and fitter, so as the swarm of Mendofa's men finished making short work of killing every last KPLA man standing, he was spinning around and hauling Robert Nimbani up onto his back, piggy back style, even before Dominic Santini had regained enough wind to protest.

"String …." Santini gasped out as he watched the younger man hitching the insensate African leader higher up on to his back then turned sideways on to Santini.

"No time, Dom. Take my sidearm," he thrust out the hip where his holster rested toward Santini, and nodding silently, Santini pulled it open and withdrew the weapon, reflexively checking to see if the safety catch was engaged and that it was loaded.

The weapon was no use to Hawke, Santini knew, not with his hands full with carrying Nimbani, and God knew they didn't have much fire power as it was, so with two weapons at his disposal, Santini knew that he had a better chance of covering their flank than with only his own weapon.

He experienced a brief pang of guilt that he should be the cause of the younger man having to shoulder the full burden of carrying Nimbani, then reason quickly kicked in, and he acknowledged the logic of it.

Hawke was younger, fitter, stronger, faster, and his reactions were quicker too, and of course, he was their best chance of getting out of this hellhole alive, in Airwolf.

But first, they had to get to her.

Santini now saw the expression on Hawke's face change, the horror flashing through his expressive blue eyes, as he watched Mendofa's men swarming out of the barracks and bearing down on their position in the trees.

"We have to get out of here, right now!"

"Amen to that!" Santini concurred as Hawke took off, and then flicked off the safety catch on Hawke's gun, and then he and the remaining KPLA men lay down covering fire as Hawke dug in and hastily made his way up the hill.

Pretty soon Mendofa's men were shooting back, and Santini was startled by the hail of bullets as they kicked up dust and stones on the ground not far from him, and then the branches of the trees over head began to explode too, showering him with dry bark and twigs.

_**Time to haul ass, old man, and just what the hell do you think you're doing here, anyway! Next time, leave it to the young guys and stay at home drinking cocoa!**_

_**Like hell!**_

There was a huge grin on his face as he pushed off from the tree where he had been resting and legs pumping furiously, he followed Hawke up the hill.


	11. Chapter 11

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters__._

Chapter Eleven

They made slow progress in the soft, loose earth, finding it hard to get purchase, Santini and the KPLA soldiers stopping intermittently to turn and return fire, allowing Hawke to take advantage of his momentum and carry on ahead, getting a good head start.

Santini knew that they must be getting low on ammunition, and could only hope that Mendofa's men, shooting so wildly and haphazardly as they were, were confronted with a similar problem and that as the trees were getting closer together, the higher up they were getting, their pursuers might decide to conserve their bullets until the escapees were out in the open.

All Santini could hope was that he could buy Hawke enough time to get a good enough head start.

If Hawke could get himself and Nimbani safely back to Airwolf, then Santini knew he could bet his life on Hawke coming right back here to fish him out.

In the meantime, he had to keep moving up this damned hill, covering Hawke's hastily receding back.

Adrenalin was coursing through his veins, counteracting the fear and fatigue, and the top of the hill was getting closer, and from there, the going would get a little easier, down hill and then flatter ground, Santini told himself. He would maybe be able to catch up with Hawke there.

Hawke finally crested the hill and disappeared over the top, and Dominic Santini found himself still grinning.

"Go for it, kid!" He laughed out loud, panting heavily, then watched with surprise as the KPLA point man suddenly made a mad dash up the hill after Hawke.

"What the hell?"

Santini glanced over to where the other KPLA man was miming something frantically at him. Santini frowned, watched some more of the pantomime, and then suddenly realised that the man was trying to tell him that his colleague had decided to make a run for the Jeep, to drive it back for them.

Or maybe drive himself out of harm's way and leave the rest of them high and dry, Santini couldn't help thinking, cynically.

Santini mimed back that they too should make a run for it, then set off up the hill, legs pumping hard, heart racing so fast he thought it might explode right out of his chest at any moment, and then he too was over the crest of the hill, and there was Hawke ahead of him, almost at the bottom now.

So close.

They were so close now, the bottom of the hill, and then just a half a mile to the river bed, Cimbawe, and the Jeep.

The KPLA point man was closing in on Hawke fast, but even before realisation dawned, Santini was watching with horror as more dust and stones were suddenly erupting all around the running soldier, close on Hawke's heels too, and then the KPLA man was falling, dead before he hit the ground, and the ear splitting report of the other KPLA man's weapon spitting out more covering fire came from close behind Santini, deafening him, startled him so much that Santini stumbled, and suddenly he was tumbling down the hillside, head over heels.

"Dom!" Hawke screamed, having turned back to see what all the commotion was, just as the KPLA man went down and then Dom too, and he now watched in horror as his old friend tumbled down the hill, and skidded to a halt in a tangle of limbs, practically at his feet.

It was hardly the way Hawke would have recommended the old guy come down the hill, but it had certainly been quicker.

"You ok?" He barked between gasps for breath, juggling Robert Nimbani's limp body around to lessen the ache he was now feeling all the way down his neck and spine.

"Oh, yeah. Just great!" Santini grumbled, gagging and coughing on the cloud of dust still swirling around his head, blinking rapidly as he gathered his senses. "Just fine," he grumbled. "I just took a header down this here hill, now how do you think I feel?"

"Sore?"

"You don't say!"

"Foolish?"

"I could have broken my damned neck …." Santini ignored Hawke's jibe, dusting off his uniform and working the kinks out of his neck and spine too.

"You're whining, so I guess that means you're still alive," Hawke commented, then ducked as another hail of bullets went flying over his head. "But if we don't get moving," Hawke's voice trailed away then as another hail of gunfire rained over their heads, and all he could think was, thank God for their lousy aim.

"Whining huh? Time to worry is when I stop whining …." Santini grouched then he too instinctively ducked as the bullets whizzed over his head and kicked up dust and dirt and stones all around them.

"Who taught these guys to shoot? Elmer Fudd!"

"Even he got lucky once in a while, now move it, Dom. Its duck season, and we're two sitting targets here!"

Hawke turned and sprinted off down the last part of the hill, smiling wryly to himself, knowing that the old man's sense of humour was cover for his feeling somewhat foolish for his recent tumble, and relieved that there were no obvious signs of any broken bones.

However, the enemy was coming up over the brow of the hill, fast, and as if to prove the point, that they were indeed sitting ducks, the sole KPLA soldier suddenly collapsed to the floor, obviously having taken a round, and did not move again.

"Let's go, Dom. Now!" Hawke screamed back over his shoulder.

"You go …." Santini protested, feeling aches and pains in all his joints as he tried to hurry after Hawke.

"Not an option, now haul ass, old man!" Hawke snarled.

"But you said …."

"I know what I said, Dom, but I changed my mind. Now quit arguing and expend some of that excess energy in getting the hell out of Dodge!"

"Yes Sir!"

Feeling every ache and scratch Dominic Santini forced himself to follow Hawke, placing himself between the younger man and the approaching enemy, although he knew that that made him an easier and slightly bigger target for General Mendofa's men to aim at.

Better him than Hawke and Nimbani.

Gun fire destroyed the peace of the African veldt, as they shot out onto the undulating dry river bed, but the strange thing was, none of the bullets actually seemed to be getting any closer to their mark, which puzzled the hell out of Santini

Santini recalled Kubasa's briefing about Mendofa's elite troops, how they were cold blooded, ruthless killers in close combat, preferring a quick kill, but their marksmanship wasn't quite so good.

Santini found him self thinking that they were wasting a lot of bullets, because none of them could hit the broad side of a barn, but then recalled that they had just lost the two KPLA men and reasoned that one of them had to get lucky some time, it was the law of averages.

Hawke had been right about the need to keep moving.

If they were chasing Hawke and Santini, then the General's men couldn't stay still long enough to fire off an accurate shot.

Hope fired in Santini's belly now.

The Jeep wasn't all that far away now, he was sure of it.

And the border was even closer still.

If he could just keep up with Hawke, this last few hundred feet, if he could just stick close to String, whom he could now see was beginning to flag under the extra weight of the African leader, his legs quaking as he staggered on, the odds of their making it were getting better and better.

Then, at last, they rounded the last bend in the dry river bed, and could clearly see the outline of the camouflaged vehicles on the other side.

Badly winded, Hawke missed his footing on some loose stones, and stumbled, and Robert Nimbani crashed heavily over his head, falling to the floor beside Hawke, who fell down on one knee, keeping his balance only by reaching out with both hands to steady him self, as he desperately tried to draw in much needed air.

"We made it!" Santini panted as he drew up beside Hawke. "You ok, kid?"

"No, I'm having a coronary!" Hawke rasped between gasps for air, glancing back over Santini's shoulder to see what their situation was, and spotting the fast approaching group of Mendofa's men.

"Now who's whining?" Santini raised an eyebrow mockingly now.

"How are you doing, Dom?" Hawke asked, still kneeling and dragging in air, relieved that for now the gunfire had stopped, although he was confused as to why, when they were just sitting there, out in the open, still, easy pickings ….

He was concerned for his old friend, noting the scratches on his face and the pained expression on his face, the way he was holding his left leg, like his hip was paining him.

"That was a nasty fall you took …."

"I know, I was there," Santini scowled, glancing back over his shoulder and spotting the fast approaching enemy. "What are they waiting for?" He indicated over his shoulder to the advancing enemy force.

"Getting their second wind," Hawke rasped breathlessly, and then it hit him.

They must be pretty close to or already had, crossed the border.

"Yeah, well, they're not the only ones. You enjoying your vacation?" Santini snarled, but he was relieved to see that his young friend was recovering from his exertions, because he had an idea that they were going to have to start running again pretty soon.

"Yeah, but I think we wore out our welcome."

"Some things never change, huh? Natives sure are getting restless," Santini agreed.

"Time to fish out your passport Dom, and find us another resort."

"Fine by me, but what about him?"

"I don't hear him complaining."

"That's because he's still out cold, kid," Santini grinned. "I'll go get the camouflage off the Jeep," he offered when he saw the scowl settling on Hawke's face as he staggered to his feet once more, then again reached down to pick up Robert Nimbani.

"Yeah, and make it snappy, Dom."

"Gotchya!"

Hawke took a second to glance around to see where exactly they were, and knew that he was right. They were positioned just beyond the center point between each ancient crumbling river bank, closer to the Jeeps and trucks, on the Cimbawe side, but that didn't mean that their pursuers wouldn't still try to shoot at them. All they had to do was stop on the other bank and keep firing.

Hawke realised that that was exactly what they planned to do as the first men to reach the bank dropped flat on their bellies and again took up their weapons.

Feelings aches in his hips and knees, every scratch on his hands and shins and even on his face, and palms, where he had reached out to try to save himself as he fell, Dominic Santini moved as quickly as he could toward where they had parked the Jeep, then wrestled to free the open topped vehicle from the camouflage netting, glancing back every few seconds to see how his young friend was doing, still laboring under the dead weight of the unconscious African leader.

"String!" Santini suddenly yelped out, as he found half a dozen enraged men pulling up on the opposite bank, who quickly dropped to their bellies and aimed their weapons.

Lousy shots or not, at that range, they could not fail to miss, and the looks on their dark faces told Santini that they meant business.

Reacting to the note of warning in the older man's voice, Hawke knew that he was in deep trouble, and he put his foot down hard on the gas, but his legs felt like rubber, shivering and quaking, lactic acid burning in his calf muscles, his spine feeling like it would snap, as he staggered under the weight of his burden.

His physical strength was waning, but he would get there on sheer determination and force of will, and adrenalin.

The Jeep was right there, just a few hundred feet away, and Stringfellow Hawke had never been a quitter.

What happened next happened to Hawke's eyes as it were happening in slow motion.

As he ran, staggering, tripping and stumbling in his haste to reach Dominic Santini and the Jeep, Hawke could see the older man struggling to pull the camouflage netting off the vehicle, rushing around, yanking the net off the windshield then rushing around the side of the vehicle to free it from the overhead strut and the rear of the vehicle, stopping at the off side fender to turn around and let off a few rounds of covering fire over Hawke's shoulder, before moving round to the other side and hauling off the remainder of the net, so that he could then jump into the driver's seat.

Just as he released the last of the stubborn netting from the overhead strut, Dominic Santini went into some kind of spasm, a weird wavering dance as his body arched forward then backward in a whiplash kind of motion, then like a puppet with its strings cut, he was toppling forward, slumping over and falling flat on his face on the driver's seat.

"Dom!"

Hawke's voice echoed in his ears as he tried to move faster under the heavy burden he carried, but it felt like he was wading through molasses, taking him an eternity to lift one foot and put it down again, one after the other, as his gaze remained fixed on the lifeless form of Dominic Santini in the driver's side of the Jeep.

He was almost there when he too suddenly felt a strange movement behind him. The man on his back seemed to be rousing, or so he thought.

_**Great timing, pal!**_

It was the very last thing he needed, for the fevered African leader to regain consciousness, and in his confusion, try to fight against Hawke, but then again, if he was conscious, he might just be able to move the last few feet under his own steam ….

Then realisation began to dawn in Hawke's brain.

Robert Nimbani wasn't waking. His body was recoiling from a gunshot, which as the thought registered in his brain, Hawke also began to feel in his own body, a sharp pain radiating out through his left shoulder, like it was exploding out, from back to front.

It was a pain he recognised, from a very long time ago, and instinctively he reached up with his right hand but was still horrified to find it covered in blood when he pulled it back.

He was hit.

The first movement that he had felt was the impact on Robert Nimbani's body as the bullet had passed through him, and then its momentum had taken it on through Hawke's shoulder where it had lodged against the bone.

During the time it took for Hawke to register all of this, amid another shower of bullets, his momentum had carried him on to the rear of the Jeep, and knowing that it probably didn't make any difference now, he carelessly tossed Robert Nimbani's body into the back seat of the Jeep and reaching out for the bodywork, pulled himself the last few feet to where Dominic Santini lay, spread eagle across the driver's seat, a small scorched hole, surrounded by a little blood, in the back of his flight suit marking the spot in his mid back where he had taken a bullet.

"Dom?" Hawke, ducking down to avoid still more gunfire, tugged at the old man's sleeve and was rewarded with a low moan, which the younger man took to be a good sign, at least Santini was still alive.

The pain in his left shoulder was almost unbearable, but Hawke knew that he somehow had to get them out of there, ASAP, and to do that, firstly he had to move Santini over into the passenger side, so that he could drive.

Mendofa's men had still made no move to cross the river bed, which Hawke realised was their only saving grace, but he also knew that they would keep shooting until they ran out of ammunition.

"Dom …"

"Yeah, kid," Santini's voice was weak, emitted between short gasps for breath. "I'm ok," he tried to reassure.

"Like hell you are, and I'm real sorry, but I gotta move you. It's gonna hurt."

"No, it don't. Don't feel nothin'."

This drew a look of horror from Hawke who immediately feared that his old friend might be paralysed for life then quickly told himself what did that matter if he died right here?

Then Hawke realised that the older man was trying to play down the severity of his injury, not wanting to frighten his young friend out of his wits.

_**Too late,**_ he was way beyond that point, and not just fearing for his old friend's future.

He was in bad shape himself, although he didn't want to think about just how bad, because if he did, he might not be able to keep it together long enough to get them out of here and to some place safe.

Honestly, they were as bad as each other, trying to spare each other's feelings, when they both knew just how bad it really was.

"Liar," Hawke snarled, but there was a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he appreciated the gesture.

"Hey, you ain't too old for a spanking!" Santini growled back. "Mind your manners, kid, when you're speaking to your elders."

"You gotta help me, Dom. I'm hit too," Hawke confessed raggedly now, the wry smile turning into a wince as he began to feel the pain radiating from his shoulder more keenly.

This made Santini start, and then let out a load groan of pain as he struggled to try to move.

"Take it easy, Dom. It's not bad," Hawke reassured, not wanting to alarm the older man any more than was necessary.

"Now who's a liar?" Santini countered, trying to twist himself around to get a look at his young friend, to assess for himself the seriousness of his wound.

"It's my shoulder. I don't think I have the strength to move you with only one arm, Dom. I'm sorry."

"It's ok, kid," Santini gasped, struggling now to try to help Hawke get him upright enough to sling his arm around the younger man's neck, much as they had done not so long ago with Nimbani, and then somehow they managed to support each other, as Hawke, relieved to find that the older man could stand, with his help, which meant that his wound probably hadn't caused any damage to his spine, or the nerves there, taking most of the older man's weight, hauled Santini's bulk around the front of the Jeep and helped him to settle in the passenger seat, trying to ignore the huge blood stain swiftly darkening the front of Santini's flight suit as he did so, all this with bullets whizzing and zinging off the metal bodywork of the Jeep.

Now, in the driver's seat, breathless and feeling dizzy and light headed, Hawke reached out to start the engine and ignoring the pain in his shoulder, thrust the gear lever forward, noting as he did so, the thin trickle of blood running down his forearm, as he flexed his fingers around the gear lever.


	12. Chapter 12

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters__._

Chapter Twelve

Hawke jammed his foot down hard on the gas pedal and the Jeep shot forward, engine roaring, rear wheels sending up a cloud of dust and spitting out rocks and gravel as Hawke pointed the vehicle toward the road that would take him back to the place where Kubasa and his men had made their camp, and Airwolf.

Steering with one hand was hard, and with the pain shooting through his shoulder and chest, and perspiration running into his eyes, blurring his vision, it was hard to concentrate and keep to the relatively good and even ground of the dry river bed, but then he had to go on to rougher terrain, the Jeep bouncing and bumping, tossing Santini around, and Hawke knew that it had to be killing the older man, but still he pressed on, knowing that he had to get to the low wooden bridge over another ancient dry river bed, for that bridge would lead him directly to where they had camped, and then it was only another few hundred feet to the safety of Airwolf.

_**Get to the bridge, get to the bridge ….**_

He recited it over and over in his head, like a mantra, fighting against the pain in his upper body and feeling even more dizzy and light headed now.

Dammit, he was hurt a lot worse than he first thought.

He'd had a similar wound in Vietnam, but it hadn't been like this. He recalled the pain, but even that had been bearable back then.

Of course, he had been younger then, and the situation had been completely different, he had been able to lay low and wait to be picked up, not having to drive like the very devil himself was on his tail, his heart pumping vigorously, adrenalin coursing through his veins.

_**Stop that, dammit. Quit thinking like that and concentrate on not crashing, and running off the damned road, and get across that bridge!**_

_**Get to Airwolf.**_

Once they were safely inside the Lady, nothing could touch them.

Taking his eyes briefly off the road, Hawke flicked a glance to where Dominic Santini was slumped in the seat beside him, but his vision was blurred, so he had to take his good hand off the steering wheel for a second to wipe the perspiration from his eyes, before he could focus properly.

What he saw made his heart constrict in his chest, for one thing, there was so much blood, soaking through Santini's flight suit, and his dear old face was ashen, almost as white as his thinning hair, his grey eyes glazed and fixed on a point on the dash before him, lips pressed together in a thin line, so as not to allow out his cries of agony, as he was jostled and bounced around in his seat every time the Jeep hit a rock or a rut, his breath coming in ragged little gasps, accompanied by an ominous rattle, all of which scared the hell out of Stringfellow Hawke.

Santini was dying, right there in front of his eyes.

Hawke had been around wounded men before, and he knew a serious gunshot wound when he saw one.

He had to get to Airwolf, he simply had to. Her speed was probably the only chance to save Dom, the only chance to get him across Africa to some place civilized with a real hospital and people who were trained in emergency, life saving procedures, before he bled out.

Hawke didn't care about his own injury.

He didn't care about his own life, but he was no use to Santini dead, so he would fight until he drew his own dying breath to make sure that Dominic Santini lived.

"Hey, String," Santini suddenly spoke through clenched teeth, surprising the hell out of Hawke, who had assumed that the older man must have passed out because of the pain. "Who the hell taught you to drive, Evil Knievel?" he slurred, finger tips digging deep into the plastic of the dash, turning white under the pressure as Santini rode out a wave of pain and nausea, but the very words were enough to hearten Stringfellow Hawke, for so long as his friend had the ability to crack a joke, there was hope for him.

"Kid, this thing has four wheels, you know. I'd appreciate it if you'd try to keep at least three of 'em on the ground at the same time!"

"You wanna drive?" Hawke countered, trying to keep his tone gruff, because it was the way that he always responded to Santini's gentle ribbing, and if he didn't the old man would cotton on to just how worried his young friend was about his condition. If he wasn't aware of just how bad it was, then he couldn't focus on that and begin to suspect that he might not make it.

"Don't you think I couldn't! Can still show you how it's done!" Santini blustered, but was then over come by a fit of harsh, hacking coughs, which left him drained and breathless, and a smear of blood on the sleeve he used to wipe his mouth when he was done.

"I think you're gonna drive me crazy!" Hawke let out a shout of laughter, then seeing the blood on his sleeve and at the corners of his mouth, realised that the older man was in desperate trouble. "Dom, stay with me! Stay with me!" he screamed when Santini closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the headrest of the seat briefly. "Hang on, Dom, we're nearly there. I see the bridge …."

_**At last.**_

_**Thank God.**_

However, Hawke knew that this was far from over, and he couldn't start celebrating just yet.

They had been in some tight spots before, but he knew things had never been quite this desperate for them.

Dominic Santini sensed the change in terrain beneath the vehicle as Hawke slammed his foot down even harder on the gas pedal and the wheels made contact with solid wood.

_**The bridge.**_

_**Thank God.**_

He forced himself to open his eyes and sit up straight once more, wanting to see exactly where they were, wanting to see Airwolf, their Saviour.

Wanting to see his young friend, terrified that he would see that his wound was mortal, needing to see for himself because he felt sure that the younger man was holding something back from him, and wanting to gaze upon that dear young face once more, for those handsome chiselled features and expressive blue eyes could hide nothing from Santini's knowing eyes.

Santini squinted away moisture from his eyes, perspiration, tears, he wasn't sure which, and didn't much care right now, and forced his gaze to focus on the young man beside him.

He needed to know just how badly hurt the young man was, not just because he loved him dearly and was terrified that he might be dying too, but in more practical terms too.

He needed to know if Hawke would be able to handle Airwolf alone, or if the young man might need his help.

The pain in his back was bearable, but he was struggling to move air in and out of his chest. He was so tired, fighting to stay awake, just in case Hawke should need him, but he thought that his heart was going to stop dead in his chest when his rheumy grey eyes settled and focused on the Jeep's driver at last.

There was no sign of any hole in the front of Hawke's flight suit, which Santini instantly knew was not a good sign, then he saw the blood trickling down the young man's arm and through his fingers, making his fingers and palm sticky as he wrestled with the unfamiliar stick shift transmission.

His face was drenched with perspiration, jaw clenched in concentration, muscles clenching and unclenching, bunching along the jaw line, working against the pain Santini knew he must be experiencing, and his eyes were blinking rapidly, a sure sign that he too was having trouble focusing, and beneath that wonderful Californian tan, his skin was grey.

Dominic Santini closed his eyes and tried to stop himself from groaning in agony as the Jeep tilted slightly as it hit a deep rut as they flew off the end of the low wooden bridge and back onto the hard packed desert track. He took his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down on it, to stop himself from crying out, knowing that as well as distracting Hawke from the task of keeping the vehicle straight and upright, it would also frighten him to death.

_**Oh, God, they were in deep, deep trouble ….**_

Santini knew that his own wound was bad enough, but the kid was losing blood, not gushing out, true, but a constant, steady stream of deep crimson, oozing down his arm, and it showed no sign of stopping, which meant that the bullet had somehow damaged some serious blood vessels inside.

As there was no exit wound, Santini knew the bullet must be lodged against the kid's shoulder bone, and if they didn't get him to a hospital where they could get it out, he was going to have serious problems with infection and nerve damage.

However, the blood loss was Santini's main concern, his very life force draining out of the young man in a slow, but steady stream.

It was clear to Santini that the younger man was functioning on sheer willpower and adrenalin now, and if he continued to bleed out like that, he could pass out at any time, including at Airwolf's controls, when they were in the air.

Still, Santini could not see that they had any other choice.

If they stayed inside Airwolf but did not try to take off, they were just as dead as if they crashed to earth, Hawke unconscious through blood loss.

They both needed immediate medical attention, and despite what Santini had told the younger man before they had set off on this little misadventure, he had no intention of dying just yet.

Dominic Santini had a few years on the clock, that was true, but he was still a relatively young man, and there were still plenty of things that he wanted to do with his life before he turned up his toes and shuffled off, things he wanted to stick around for, like seeing the dear young man beside him settled with a nice girl and raising a family of his own.

Maybe he would even take a bit of his own advice and find himself a nice girl, who would be willing to take on a cantankerous old fool like himself, and maybe then he would settle down and take up gardening.

One thing he would not do was sit back and watch the young man beside him slowly die. Nor would he give up his own fight.

There was still so much to see and do, so many more adventures awaiting the pair of them.

It couldn't end like this.

Not in this wretched, burning hellhole.

"Hang in there, Dom," Hawke spoke through clenched teeth, fighting with the steering wheel, his strength ebbing now, responding to Santini's soft moans. "We're nearly there," he reported, pulling hard on the steering wheel now as he recognised the terrain around them as being close to where they had broken camp …. Was it only that morning?

Yes, he recognised the clump of trees in the little gully, for it was where he and Dominic had secreted Airwolf.

"There she is, Dom!" Hawke's voice rose in triumph and relief as he picked out the outline of the camouflage covered helicopter. "We made it! Soon have you fixed up."

"You take care of that shoulder first …."

"It's nothing, Dom. Just a scratch," Hawke brushed off Santini's concerns, although if he were to be completely honest with himself, he knew that his situation was far worse than he had first thought. He felt so dizzy and light headed, he wasn't sure which way was up.

"Liar," Santini ground out between ragged gasps for air now.

"Dom, I'm ok," Hawke assured, putting a little more gruffness in his voice now.

"Liar," Santini repeated. "You're gonna need more than a Band-Aid to fix that hole."

"Speak for yourself," Hawke snarled.

"I ain't the one gotta fly the Lady."

"I'll manage."

"You'll manage to crash and kill us both, is what you'll manage!" Santini moaned as Hawke now swerved the Jeep off the track, causing the vehicle to fishtail, as it span, finally coming to a stop nose to nose with Airwolf.


	13. Chapter 13

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters__._

Chapter Thirteen.

"You're still whining, old man," Hawke snarled again, slipping out of the Jeep, only to find that his legs were so weak and shaky they buckled beneath him, and he had to make a grab for the metal door frame to keep him self from falling to the floor.

"Told ya, kid, the time to worry is when I stop, and quit calling me a liar, will ya, or I swear I will put you across my knee …."

Santini watched with alarm as the young man staggered, hanging on heavily to the Jeep's door frame to keep his balance, and his heart went out to the younger man, but he knew Hawke well enough after all these years to understand what he was doing.

He knew that he was wasting his breath trying to reason with the hard headed youth, for Hawke would not listen to him. He was too damned stubborn, and he would never put his own welfare above that of his friend.

"String …."

"I'm ok, Dom. Just getting my second wind."

"Ok, just don't take all day about it," Santini cajoled now. There was nothing that he could do except make all this a little easier for the young man to deal with.

"Got a hot date tonight?" Hawke countered.

"You're kidding, right? Look at us, huh, both leaking like sieves. What a team! No gal worth her salt would come within a country mile of us looking like this."

"Speak for yourself," Hawke drew in a deep breath and waited for the world to settle a little, then used the metal door frame to swing himself around the front of the Jeep, wincing as searing pain shot through his upper arm and chest, the world tipping and spinning wildly once more, as breathing hard, he finally came to a standstill beside Dominic Santini.

"C'mon, we gotta get you out of this heat," Hawke told the older man, desperately trying to hide from Santini just how bad he really felt, and his shock at the other man's pallor and labored breathing.

"Give your self a minute, String," Santini advised now. "At least take a sip of water."

"Not a good idea, Dom. If and when we get to a hospital …."

"String …." Santini protested then noticed the look on Hawke's face. "Ok kid," he acquiesced, knowing that the younger man had to deal with the situation in his own way, which usually meant ignoring the obvious, burying his head in the sand and carrying on as if nothing had happened.

_**He should be right at home out here with the rest of the ostriches!**_

"How's our friend back there?" Santini decided to change the subject now.

Hawke moved slowly along the side of the Jeep and gingerly reached in, his fingers finding the still, warm body of Robert Nimbani, and continued on negotiating his way through the tattered rags he had been wearing to search for a place to check for a pulse.

He could find none.

_**Damn.**_

_**It had all been for nothing.**_

"String?"

"I guess all his troubles are over," Hawke sighed heavily, then carefully made his way back to Santini. "Let's get you inside Airwolf."

"You can't leave him here, String," Santini looked appalled at the very idea.

"Who said I was going to," Hawke scowled now. "I wouldn't leave my worst enemy out here for the local wildlife to pick clean, besides, people are gonna want proof that we got him out, and that he really is dead," Hawke sighed again. "If there is any doubt, any uncertainty about his fate, there could be a whole lot of trouble ahead for the whole of this continent."

"Yeah."

"He can wait though, we need to get you into Airwolf, and out of this heat, and then I'll get the medical kit out and see what I can do about patching up these holes. Wouldn't want to ruin the upholstery," he forced a wry smile to his lips now.

"Forget the upholstery kid, just get me inside to my console, and I'll start looking for the nearest piece of civilisation."

Hawke was about to protest then realised the wisdom in what Santini was saying. He could fly for hours, days even, and never get close to some place equipped to deal with Dom's injury, and the political fall out that the sudden arrival of what amounted to two American mercenaries, with the dead body of one of the most respected men never to have become leader of his country, in tow.

"Thanks Dom. At least one of us is still thinking clearly," he reached out with his good hand and laid it very gently against the older man's shoulder, briefly, then made his legs carry him the short distance to Airwolf, where he battled with the huge camouflage net which concealed her, the struggle almost bringing him to the point of collapse, but then, at last, the netting was clear, and Hawke leaned heavily against the hull for a moment, to get his breath back, before popping the door and pulling it open as wide as it would go.

Breathless, dizzy and disorientated, Hawke some how made it back to the Jeep, and clung on heavily to the metal door frame beside Dominic Santini.

"You ready for this?" he gasped out, rivulets of perspiration running down both sides of his face now, eyes bright with fever and tears, which he blinked away impatiently, and which also ran down his rugged cheeks.

Santini's heart came up into his mouth at the sight of the younger man, blood still running down his left arm, face grey, eyes frantic, pupils large, dilated, breathing hard, as he gazed down upon his old friend.

Santini knew what his young friend was asking.

Was he ready for the pain that moving him from the Jeep to Airwolf's rear engineering compartment would undoubtedly cause him?

Santini couldn't have said that it was something that he was looking forward to, but Hawke was almost out of steam, on the verge of collapse, and it had to be done. If they waited much longer, then it might be too late.

"Yeah, I'm ready, kid. You just steady me, ok?"

Wincing, and moving very slowly, Santini swivelled slightly in his seat and then carefully swung each leg out of the foot well, until he was turned sideways in his seat, facing Hawke, his breathing coming in shallow, ragged gasps and his hands visibly shaking.

He took a moment to ride out the wave of nausea and pain that suddenly overcame him, and to get his breath back, and then he was reaching out to slip his arm around Hawke's waist, not his neck, knowing that the young man would be in too much pain if he hung all of his weight around his upper body, and rose, unsteadily, to his feet.

"Ok, kid, gotta do this quick," Santini told the younger man. "Before we both run out of gas."

Hawke nodded and braced himself to take all of Santini's weight, but there was no way that the older man would allow that, and so he forced himself to move, with Hawke's help, the short distance to Airwolf, almost falling inside as his legs refused to lift high enough so that he could climb inside the cabin.

At last, with Hawke's help, the younger man giving him a much needed boost up, Santini was safely inside Airwolf. However, Stringfellow Hawke still had to go back for the body of Robert Nimbani, yet even as he watched with relief as Santini collapsed heavily into his seat, and struggled to reach out for his helmet, Hawke was so dizzy and breathless, his legs so weak and rubbery, he almost fell backward on to his backside, only saving himself at the last moment by making a grab for Airwolf's open door.

He was forced to stand, bent over double, dragging air into his lungs and trying not to throw up, as he fought to stop the world from spinning out of control.

When he finally looked up, after another dry heave, Hawke saw Santini, sitting a little awkwardly, but with his helmet now in place, fingers fumbling as they moved stiffly over the instruments on the console in front of him, bringing Airwolf's systems out of battery powered standby mode and back on line, waking her from her slumbers.

Almost at the end of his endurance, his whole body wracked in pain now, lungs burning and legs like jelly, Hawke finally returned to Airwolf with Robert Nimbani's body, and unceremoniously stuffed him in back, on the floor alongside Santini. They were way beyond having time for pleasantries, and respect for the dead, indeed, the way Hawke felt right now, he suspected that he was almost out of time, period.

He had to get out of this heat, get behind the controls and get the bird into the air, so using what little strength he had left, and Airwolf's nose cone for support and momentum, he dragged himself around to the other side, popped the door and stumbled into Airwolf's gloriously cool cockpit.

With only one good arm, it took him an eternity to cram on his helmet, and was breathing hard into the microphone inside it, when he finally managed to speak to his companion.

"You got something for me, Dom?"

With his left arm seriously damaged, Hawke couldn't reach up to engage the main rotor switches, so he practically had to lie on his side and wrench his right shoulder out of its socket to reach up, but at last, Airwolf's systems began to boot up and her main rotor began to whir and thwack the air outside as she built up momentum.

"Dom?"

"Sorry, kid, I'm waiting on the Lady," Santini gasped back, breathing hard too. "She ain't coming up with anything much. Just lots and lots of empty space. Wilderness," he reported somberly.

"Try scanning for life signs, Dom. Refine the search parameters to human life signs only though Dom, if you can. Wouldn't want to be homing in on a pack of elephants, making their way to their graveyard."

"Good idea, String. Wouldn't want to end up as some lion's entrée either!" Santini let out a breathy chuckle in Hawke's ear, trying to disguise the fact that he was feeling much worse since he had been forced to move from the Jeep. "You ok?"

"I've been better, Dom, but I think there's enough juice left in my tank to get us some place with a hospital and doctors."

"Don't count on it. Man, this area is so bleak. The Lady can't get a lock on anything human."

"Then I'd better take her up and do a sweep."

"You want me to come up front?"

"No, you stay put. I'm fine," Hawke assured gruffly.

"Sure you are, kid, and I'm Al Johnson …." Santini sighed.

"Why don't you just tell me where they hell we are," Hawke snarled impatiently now. "And give me a chorus of Swannee while you're at it!"

"Clown …. Ok," Santini paused to draw in a ragged breath. "Straight ahead, well I guess you know this is Cimbawe, and there's not much of a friendly welcome waiting for us here. East, on our six, well now, that's the equally friendly Kembala. We go back there and they're likely to lynch us before asking questions. South, Jo'berg, but I don't think you can make it, north is Sudan, and there ain't a whole helluvalot there but sand, and west, well, a whole heap of nothing, so your guess is as good as mine. Welcome to Africa. No wonder they call it the Dark Continent!"

Hawke pulled back on the stick and Airwolf rose, slowly, wobbling precariously as her pilot summoned up all his remaining reserves of strength to pull back on the stick with his good right hand and the cyclic with his left, fingers sticky with congealed blood now, gritting his teeth against the excrutiating pain that shot through his whole left side as he did so, watching the nose rise and dip as the craft gained altitude.

"What'd'ya think, huh? Maybe we should flip a coin?"

"With our luck, we'd end up in your favourite vacation spot."

"Siberia," Santini groaned. "It's up to you, kid. What's your gut tellin' you?"

"Aside from the fact that it wants to re-introduce me to last night's dinner? West, I guess."

It was the only logical choice.

Hawke suspected that Santini was right about his not being able to make it to South Africa. By his best estimate, he was probably no more than fifteen minutes from blacking out, nowhere near enough flying time to make it to Johannesburg, even if he could handle Airwolf's controls at turbo speeds, but perhaps just long enough to find some kind of civilisation.

Maybe they would get lucky.

Maybe there was a native village nearby, or a white settlement that hadn't made it on to the map, Hawke really didn't care, so long as there were people around, they might be able to keep them both alive, while someone sent word out to someone who really could help them.

It had to be worth a shot.

Hawke knew that he couldn't hold on for much longer.

His right hand was getting tired already from taking all the strain on the stick, and his left arm was practically useless for anything except pain.

He had lost a lot of blood.

Maybe too much blood.

He had to find some kind of human habitation, and he had to find it fast.

"Ok then, west it is, kid. I'll crank up those scanners as high as they'll go. Might help."

"Might try sending out a Mayday too, and give them our position."

"Roger," Santini confirmed, "Think anyone will be listening?"

"Better hope so. We've gotta try everything, Dom. If I have to go in with chain guns blasting, to get someone's attention, then so be it!"

"Yeah, right."

Then, suddenly, Santini was consumed in a fit of harsh, hacking coughs, making a choking, gurgling sound in Hawke's helmet.

The younger man swung around in his seat, turning to his left to see over the console to where Santini was seated, behind him, but regretted it immediately for it caused an excruciating pain to shoot down his arm and through his chest, robbing him of breath and making his eyes water.

"Dom? Dom!"

Hawke could just make out Dominic Santini, slumped in his seat, could hear his labored breathing inside his helmet, a horrible sound that he knew he would never get out of his head for the rest of his life, which, he realised, might not be much longer, if he didn't turn back and look where they were going.

"Dom? Dom!" Again there was no response from his rear seat man, only that horrible noise, which sounded like a death rattle, and Hawke was frantic now.

They were out of time.

They were out of options.


	14. Chapter 14

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters__._

Chapter Fourteen

Airwolf sped on, eating up the miles, putting Cimbawe behind her, and at her flight controls, Stringfellow Hawke was fighting a losing battle to stay conscious.

There was only one option left open to him.

He had to find some place to set Airwolf down, before he buried her, nose first into the arid veldt.

He had no idea what their exact position was, but he knew that Dominic Santini hadn't managed to get off that Mayday before he had passed out, so wherever the hell they were, they were well and truly on their own, because no-one knew that they were out here.

If he set Airwolf down safely, Hawke acknowledged, desperately trying to hang on to reason and the flight controls, as his right hand ached with the strain of taking all of the aircraft's weight and his vision blurred, the edges growing slowly darker and darker, they would at least be safe inside for a while, protected from the heat of the day, the indigenous predators, of which he knew there were many, and the drastic temperature drop, to below freezing at night, and maybe, when his body had recovered a little, and he regained consciousness, for he was sure now that pretty soon he was going to black out, maybe he would have enough strength left to fly them to Johannesburg.

Even now, feeling the cold hand of death closing around his heart and his brain, Hawke refused to believe that this was the end, for himself, or Dominic Santini.

It couldn't be the end.

They were both just too damned 'ornery to go out like this, yet his fuddled brain suddenly presented him with an image, maybe ten or twenty years down the pike, when this part of Africa was more densely populated, some poor soul coming upon the rusted hulk that was Airwolf, and finding within, two desiccated skeletons clad in helmets and flight suits ….

_**Get a grip, dammit!**_ He told himself sternly.

He wasn't going to die.

He had to get help for Dominic, for one thing, but he was simply too damned stubborn to die. He wasn't ready yet, so that was an end to it!

"Hang on, Dom. I'm taking her down."

Fighting back tears of pain and anger and frustration, Hawke fought with Airwolf's controls, reducing her altitude gradually, and struggling to maintain enough momentum to keep her aloft without stalling her out, but even as he did so, through the microphone in his helmet, he heard Dominic Santini emit one last, long hiss of breath.

"_**No!"**_ Hawke wailed, desperately trying to keep Airwolf airborne, while spinning around in his seat to get a better look at Santini, ignoring the pain and the dizziness, and just out of the corner of his eye, Hawke could make out the older man, hunched forward over his console, and suddenly swallowed down hard on the lump that was in his throat, as he watched Santini's big paw of a left hand slide from the side of the console to hang lifelessly down beside him.

Suddenly Hawke's helmet was filled with another strange noise, so loud it almost deafened him, and it took him a moment to determine that the high pitched whistle and whine he could hear buzzing inside his head was actually coming from outside the aircraft, and he realised that Dom's hand must have brushed against, and activated, the external audio sensors button when he had lost consciousness.

It was like he suddenly had a raging tornado roaring inside his head, and Hawke clawed desperately at his helmet, trying to rip it off, before his head exploded, and was just about to toss it on to the seat beside him, useless now, when he heard something else over the earphones, and began to wonder if he had finally gone loco.

_**Auditory hallucinations?**_

_**Was that a symptom of brain death from lack of oxygen, due to extreme blood loss?**_

Hawke pulled the helmet closer to his ear, frowning, because he simply couldn't believe what he was hearing, and above the whistling and beating air outside, listened, a manic smile suddenly touching his lips.

He began to laugh out loud.

Hysteria, some part of his brain recognised, yes, he was definitely losing it now, and yet, he could not help humming along to the familiar tune.

Ah, what the hell, he'd be knocking at the pearly gates soon enough, maybe it wouldn't hurt any to sing the words out loud too?

_**What was that thing?**_

_**Oh yeah, Psalm 23. The Lord's My Shepherd ….**_

_**We'll see …. We'll see ….**_

"Yea though I walk through death's dark vale, yet will I fear no ill, for though art with me, and they rod, and staff me comfort still …."

And now, Hawke could hear other voices, angels singing out their praises, good and loud, if slightly off key.

_**A choir of angels wouldn't sound so flat, would they?**_

_**Surely not?**_

Hawke pulled himself together, giving himself a mental shake at such a ridiculous notion, still fighting with Airwolf's controls.

_**Think man.**_

_**Think!**_

_**And get a grip!**_

And then it hit him.

It was Sunday, and he was picking up some kind of religious service, coming from outside Airwolf's cockpit, and from not very far away, for it was getting louder, he could even hear the asthmatic wheezing of some ancient organ banging out the melody.

"Goodness and mercy all my life, shall surely follow me, and in God's house, forever more, my dwelling place shall be."

_**Follow the singing, dammit, ghastly though it is, follow it, because wherever it's coming from, it's your salvation …. **_

And tuneless and grating though it was, the sound filled Hawke's heart with absolute joy.

And then, as if by some miracle, Hawke saw it, like a giant mirage rising out of the shimmering heat of the desert, filling his windshield as it got closer and closer.

He was suddenly looking at a cluster of low buildings, at least three he could make out easily, built with brick and slate roofs, for crying out loud, in the style of single storey bungalows, each with a wooden porch surrounding it, all of which flashed by as Hawke flew over, almost skimming the roof off the largest building.

_**Oops.**_

How very Colonial.

Hawke was still grinning maniacally as he wrestled with Airwolf's controls, knowing that it would be very bad manners, at the very least, to literally drop in on them out of the sky!

_**Thank God.**_

Euphoria, not hysteria, then.

Relief.

Thank God, and just in the nick of time too.

_**Be careful, or you might just make a believer out of me yet….**_

_**Maybe I'm not so damned after all ….**_

Hawke simply physically couldn't hold on any longer, at the very end of his endurance, far from lucid and rational, and suddenly so tired he just wanted to close his eyes, but he knew that he couldn't.

He had to find some place flat to set Airwolf down, but first, he had to kick up enough of a commotion to get the inhabitants of the complex down there to come out and see what was happening, so he allowed Airwolf to sink lower, and turned her around and around, back and forth, her back wash and down draft kicking up a cloud of dust and debris, her engines roaring, screeching and whining in protest, and then he used what little strength he had left to pull back on the stick and gain enough altitude to pass safely over the buildings, even more timber constructions revealed as he passed over the main complex, staring down in stunned amazement at the sight of goats and chickens scattering from their enclosures and the other outbuildings.

Then he pointed Airwolf out beyond the complex of buildings, which he was beginning to realise must be some kind of religious Mission, just as people began to emerge, rushing out into the sunlight, shocked and confused and terrified by the uproar in their backyard, to see what was happening.

_**Thank God.**_

His lips pulling back in a broad grin as out of the corner of his eye he imagined he saw a very angry, red faced penguin, shaking his fist up at him ….

_**Mission accomplished.**_

_**And he hadn't had to let off one round from the chain guns either!**_

Hawke peered out of Airwolf's front window, desperately looking for somewhere to land, but all he could see was a rock strewn dried out lake bed and intermittent patches of scrub and spindly trees, and all the time he was getting further and further away from the settlement.

His only hope was that someone had had enough wits about them to watch in which direction he had gone, and realise that something was wrong.

At last, running out of strength, and altitude, Hawke finally found the flattest piece of ground he could, and came in for a heavy landing, feeling his grip on consciousness slipping away, as Airwolf finally rolled to a halt, and he reached up, straining to reach the overhead switches, closing off all the power, and then, not able to hang on any longer, his last act before falling into unconsciousness was to twist around in his seat and reach out for Dominic Santini's hand as it dangled limp, lifeless, beside the insensate older man slumped over his console, taking it into his own, and squeezing it gently trying to instil his own life force and strength of will into the older man.

"Hold on, Dom, hold on old friend," he implored. "The cavalry's comin'" And then his voice trailed away as he too finally succumbed and passed in to the black void of oblivion.

To be continued / ...


End file.
